"somewhere other than inside the out there" -- part nine.
there is a remarkable touch that some people have, and it surgically implants itself to the center of your brain, runs down the very nerves of your spine, and slips a straight turn to pierce your heart. after that moment, that decidedly painful and yet ridiculously short moment, when you meet that pair of eyes or trade smirks with that person, inevitably, it will leave such a beautiful scar.
and you stare and marvel.
i had this love once, and my scars are so cold.
the evening after i ran into him, i returned to my little room. it overlooked kenmore square with one large window that led out onto a tiny fire escape balcony. it was about six feet wide and twelve feet long with a desk, a bed, a dresser, and a haunted closet. i had a combination microwave and mini-fridge. my television sat on this wobbly plastic thing passing as a table. it had a high ceiling and ugly carpeting. the building was at least a century old, and i loved it because it was my space.
home from dinner with my neighbors and squeezed on the floor in between my bed and passable tv stand, i threw in "the jerk" and grabbed my faulkner notes to settle in for a nice cool september evening.
light a cigarette.
the phone rang right as steve martin was dodging exploding cans.
i clumsily prop myself up enough to reach the phone with my good hand.
i told my mom i'm studying, and i can tell she didn't believe me.
as soon as i hung up, it rung again.
"yeah?"
"linds?"
and my voice waivered a bit since i had been expecting my mother.
"yeah?"
he said he wanted to come over, to talk, to hang out. i relented, completely surprised that he had called at all, let alone so soon.
and you'll forgive me for getting a little teary eyed right now. typically, all this going back and digging up and reliving is wearing me quite thin. sometimes it's cutting, my memories of his voice, and sometimes it doesn't come at all.
a few hours later, we both sat on my bed in that same small room with the night sky beating through the window and that mix tape he made me on the top shelf of my closet, safely in a box.
he was five foot three with dark spikey hair, carefully sculpted with the cheapest gel at cvs. he could shape his brown eyes into concern or pleads or brilliance. a striking profile with a prominent nose and grainy stubble. his hands were constantly in motion, spinning a ring in his palm or twirling a long string of metal beads. he wore his pants two sizes too big and secured them with a black leather belt from which hung a wallet chain. he never wore jeans or shorts, and his t-shirts were medleys of old punk bands or new emo bands that you'd never heard of over which he wore a button down either half buttoned or not buttoned at all. bowling shirts or tacky hawaiians. he had a torn up pair of black docs which he wore from the time he got out of the shower until he got into bed at night. he hated being barefoot when we first met. he had a bicycle chain bracelet that a bum outside of store 24 had given him, and a string of metal beads doubled around his neck at all times. and he wore two rings, one silver with blackened waves and another silver one with criss crossing arrows on it.
but more than any of this, you always noticed that he walked with purpose, constantly out to create and destroy. he carried himself to the tune of ten thousands violinists and scores of timpanis. there was always a wake in his footsteps.
we sat on my bed, and he cleared his throat.
my eyebrows were raised. he had asked to come over. he said he wanted to talk. i was still so angry that i didn't say a word. i just waited.
this sea, a tidal wave really, of apologies emerged. like watching it from a high hill, the wave tore over the country side, blindsiding trees and drowning every creature in its mass.
"you need to buy me a milkshake," i said about half an hour later.
and he smiled.
we walked across the street to delihaus, and he bought me a chocolate milkshake.
it was as though he took off each of his limbs and placed them in front of me for examination and scrutinization. he, then, ripped open his chest and pointed out the weaker points, awaiting critical treachery.
he was open and sorry.
she had dumped him and moved out of the apartment and moved in with some other guy they worked with. one of his friends tore him a new one and told him what an ass he had become over this girl who was not worth her weight in salt. it was then that he realized how he had treated me, and how confusing it must have been, and he at least had to try to make it right so i'd know that it wasn't anything i'd done. he had just gotten stupid over a girl.
i told him that i understood. i had gotten stupid over him, and it made me weak. i told him that that was not going to happen again. he told me he wanted to be my friend. i told him that it was going to take a lot for me to trust him again.
we both looked at our hands.
he told me that he knew that.
"out of everything that happened, you're the one situation that i felt the worst about. you didn't deserve that. i can't believe i did that to you. she broke me. now, i'm going to fix everything i did wrong."
"well, you're off to a good start."
we said goodnight and hugged. he said he wanted to hang out and would call. i smirked and thought that i wouldn't necessarily hold my breath.
i'd been promised things before.
i went back to my room and prayed that i was tagging along to the right instinct. it would be even harder to let go of him a second time.
we follow such strange reasoning, don't we? this odd blend of emotion and what we feel other people should do in reaction to our own corrupt actions.
i didn't know what to do with myself. i couldn't write or type comfortably. so i threw on some music and collapsed on my bed, stared at the ceiling before i fell asleep.
if you'd have been there, you would have seen possibly the creepiest and most mysterious smile laying directly on my lips like a misplaced book of matches in a cathedral.
