Today the weather is a bit cooler than it has been for the past few weeks. The sky is beautifully overcast—just in time to block everyone’s view of the magical cosmic happenings in the sky. But sadly, the temperature hasn’t lowered enough to keep me from sweating in my jeans after my morning coffee walk. It’s still August, after all.
It’s always nice to get outside, even for a little walk downtown. It doesn’t hit me the way a run or a workout does, though. I’m already restless and irritable again; the benefits of last night’s run faded while I was asleep. I did my workout until failure, but the ache in my muscles still isn’t pronounced enough to satisfy me. I want to feel the soreness in every motion. I want to feel something else—anything else.
It’s that damned temperance again. I can’t get outside of myself for even a moment unless via some natural conduit. So the only thing I really have to cling to is that fugacious endocannabinoid rush and the requisite burn of microscopic tears pervading my muscle fibers. But my relief will have to wait because I don’t have any extra time today to regulate.
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Our little group is huddled up on my couch debating what movie to watch, bickering back and forth. I throw a couple titles out and am told repeatedly my suggestions are unhelpful. I want something gross, I say. Miserable, violent, serious. Something that might fuck me up. Once the decision is finally made, we trek upstairs to get our snacks.
The others step outside, leaving us in the stillness of the kitchen, and I stand in front of the microwave staring through the window as if I really need to keep an eye, not just an ear, on the popcorn. He opens the fridge, looking for desserts. My body is stiffer than steel as I try to balance being near him against not getting close enough to touch. He asks if he can have some ice cream, and before he’s even finished, the of course is already tumbling past my lips.
He asks for a cookie, too, and this time I manage to stop the pathetic acquiescence from leading the way. I make up a transactional clause to justify the cookie, rather than me just being willing to dump out the whole sky for him. I say he has to scoop some ice cream for me, too, if he wants a cookie, and he smiles like it was a better answer than yes. I didn’t even really want any, but I watch anyway as he struggles with the frozen treat to force a scoop out on my behalf. As we stand there together, the blasts of corn exploding in the microwave punctuate the silence.
The night crawls on and I loosen up a little bit. He offers me little candies I don’t even want, but my cold heart threatens to thaw knowing he wants to share something with me, and I end up taking them anyway. When our hands brush in the handoff, I focus entirely on not shaking or lingering.
I try not to look at him at all throughout the evening, but every time he asks me for something I melt immediately. Of course, of course, of course, keeps falling out of my mouth, and I flinch as my love tears its way out of me. I stop answering, and he stops asking out loud, just holding his hand out to me, either empty or with an offering. We share a soda on the couch, trading it back and forth without a word. For us, they’re just not always necessary.
But I want desperately to know what’s going through his head. Last time I asked (the only time I’ve asked), he didn’t give me a straight answer—just a half answer, really. Something I usually do. Something I have been trying really hard not to do. He’s a mystery to me in part, like he’s always been. Sometimes I can read him like he’s speaking directly to me, and sometimes I look into his eyes and I don’t understand a single thing.
He spends the night moving around me like I’m fucking contagious. I spend the night trying not to scream.