"somewhere other than inside the out there." -- part forty five.

he was the only boy that ever made me feel good about myself, that i didn't have to change a thing, that i was funny enough, that i had a great ass, that my intelligence alone would keep him coming back for more.

you ever had that?

oh, that person, golden fucking savior for unusual high school romances and a year of pizza alone on saturday nights. when you left their side, it was the worst moment of the day, but damn, you could finally hold your head high.

this one day, we were walking down magazine street, an avenue of plate glass window fronted stores and coffee shops. he and i were side by side, chatting and laughing. suddenly, he did a little double take. then he looked a third time, a little longer and a little harder.

and he began to laugh loudly.

"what?" i asked, stopping. we had just passed an older couple, but nothing too out of the ordinary.

"well, i caught this chick out of the corner of my eye, and i thought, 'damn, she's hot.' i looked again, and it was your reflection in the window," and he began to laugh a little more.

i burst out laughing and took him by the hand. we kissed on the sidewalk, and he said, "you're beautiful."

this was two years into our relationship, and he still made me feel brand new. after spending nearly every day together, it was still open and wide.

anyway, i better get on with it.

back to the hospital, the weekend passed with no change. and on early tuesday morning, they did another cat scan. he was losing reflexes and showing no sign of improvement. we were diligent, and there.

i won't bother you with the details, because i don't think that i could. we just knew that he wasn't getting better.

on wednesday morning, i walked in with a bit of lunch, and i saw his mom hurrying through the corridor. the one we all knew too well.

i dropped the bag, and i went back into his room. i looked at him, and i looked at his dad and his stepmom.

"what? what's going on?"

and they sat me down

by this time, explorer and rockstar and philosopher had driven to new orleans, and they had all seen him. said what they needed to say. i'd smoked my weight in camel lights and stayed away from food as much as possible.

and that afternoon, when i thought, if there was a god, just or vengeful, if there was one at all, it couldn't get any worse.

they sat me down in that one chair, right by his bed.

i thought, what could have we done? what could have we done to deserve a mighty vision into hell?

they sat me down, and they looked into my eyes, glinting between the two of them.

i thought, this isn't really happening. no, they can't tell me anything that i don't already know. they can't tell me.

and they sat me down.

what followed was everything you never want.

you want to talk about love? you want to talk about the seeping and puss and sores and absolute genius and beauty and smacks of ego and fights and god help us all....

you want to talk about love? about seeing someone you never thought you'd have to say goodbye to wash away into hospital beeps and wires?

you want to talk about love? about the quiet times and the resonating laughter and the history and the choices?

because these aren't things you can just talk about. these aren't fucking things that you just TALK about. these aren't the things that fucking matter. these tiny fucking little goddamn things, they have nothing to do with anything when you can watch your own heart break as his stops beating.

i'm sorry, but you don't talk about these things.

his mom and his dad and his stepparents and myself, we held him close.

he didn't have to hurt anymore.

he died at about six in the evening, peaceful, bright, and fighting, on the first sunny day in two weeks.

our friends were still there, in the waiting room, when we all broke.

the sidewalk was still warm when i fell.

and the world was quiet for such a time in november.

he didn't have to hurt anymore.