111

 

“I’ve always wanted to write a book, a memoir."

He stood gathering his things - among them, his decency.

A fluorescent light propped up in the corner of the room saturated everything in a glaringly, bright blue.

“You should,” he said.

“What makes you think I’d be any good at it?”

We had only just met.

He motioned around the room to framed artwork, embroidered canvases, and letters glued to the wall that I had all made, shining that blue light on a creativity often obvious to everyone except myself.

Something felt different about him. This was a singular encounter. A much welcomed rare occurrence after a string of unremarkable hookups. But I fingered the light switch down and into the darkness went any considerations of anything more than casual sex.

The rapture of love – a resurrection of joy, a manifestation of purpose.

It bewilders me that anyone would fear love. That they would throw themselves away from the sweeping relief of loneliness. What purpose does anyone have if not to refuge in great pleasures?

What pleasures me now is more than his body.

It’s a creative sticking that feels inseparable. It’s the relief of doubt in my ambitions, pulling off my emotional weaknesses.

“You make me feel like…I can do anything I’ve ever dreamt of doing,” I confess, looking up at him with soaked eyes.

“You make me feel the same way.”

I find strength in his presence. Whether hovered over him or even, buried under the thoughts that weigh him down.

His twisted sense of humor brings about my laughter. He pulls me out of my comfort zone into wild, rebellious nights. Even the simplest of nights – the two of us on my patio, seated at a bar, or dancing down sidewalks.

We bond over playlists.

We smile through the phone.

We’re safe, together, in the candlelight that quickly replaced the fluorescent blue glow. I cherish that safety. Where our deep conversations flow without barriers or judgments.

I lead him gently, by the hand, towards a happiness I know without doubt he has inside of him. He emboldens me to banish any insecurities that could ever trouble me.

We have grown. Through a lot of unbridled pleasure, and brief moments of inevitable pain dispersed throughout.

And as it all becomes more familiar; it starts to feel endangered. I could never be this lucky. I tell myself that it’s all too good to be true. And there are obvious factors that justify my disbelief. Yet despite those, I can’t imagine anything could ever break us.

I spend my days campaigning to myself that, “it’s too good not to be true.”

Especially in this fucked up world where no one seems to put value on the scarcity of alignment. Where no one seems to have a follow through on connections like this. It’s easier to pull away as soon as the other person doesn’t fulfill their lengthy, unrealistic, list of expectations. Seldom a flame lights when everyone is just settling for casual sparks. A flame puts you at certain risk to burn, and so we steer clear of the light.

But it is only in the light that I am fulfilled. I know the flame is perilous, but I reach for it anyway for I can’t help but to see through this great pleasure.

And despite my past I keep asking myself, “What if this time it actually worked out? What if all of your past narrated you to this, the book you’ve always wanted to write?”