Come to think of it, I'm not entirely convinced I'm not just a kid playing dress up.
I'm a newspaper and magazine guy. At any given point I have the Examiner, the Economist, SF Weekly, the Sunday Times, the New Yorker or whatever else I've managed to pick up over the week in my bag. By Friday the foot of my bed becomes quite the little fire hazard.
My head rolled above the surface of the water for a moment; my consciousness gasping for breath.
I tried to focus my eyes on the edge of the bed, on the floor, on the ceiling. My world remained a blur. Lifting my head forced the room into a barrel roll. Something red started flying in circles around my head; or was I staring at? There was shuffling.
Minutes later, hours later, days later, seconds later, I was awake again. Bolt upright in my bed. I saw boxes strewn around the room. I had no fucking clue where I was; I rolled back over.
If ever you wake up alone in a strange environment my advice is to sleep in. I figure, fuck it, the amount of time you lay alone in a stranger’s bed doesn’t affect how strange they may be. And it doesn’t matter what the situation ends up being when you wake up, it’s always best to be well rested.
I peeled my eyes open to try and get my bearings, there was a pile of boxes along the wall. One had “Fragile” scrawled in block letters, the handwriting was mine. Fuck. This is always a terrible realization to have.
I was laying in my own bed, in my new bedroom. Moving four times in a month and a half was leaving me a stranger in a familiar land.
Something was amiss though, I had everything in my life inside brown boxes, that splash of color was all I could think about. That splash of crimson that spun around my head before I could fully emerge from the cool waters of sleep. It had moved too, I was sure of it. Not just in it’s spinning, someone had picked it up….someone. My head sank back into the pillows and I let a slow smile creep across my face.
Suddenly I was back in the bar, desperately drunk. We’d known of each other from years before, back when we were freshmen in college, just well enough that we could dance together, just poorly enough that we finished our first drink before the song was over.
We went to the bar for another round. Vodka Tonic, clean to keep me straight until I needed to be crooked, and just strong enough to make me want to become that crook. More dancing. Things start to get fuzzy here.
We’re looking for her car. Stumbling through the cold night. I shove her against the wall and finally kiss her. We knew the score the second we walked out of that dim bar, but even drunk and sure of yourself, fear grips you for that split second as you dive face first into the night. Her car’s nowhere to be found; thank god. The search sent us to a parking lot, and the parking lot lent us privacy, and privacy, well; privacy led my hand up her skirt.
I try and roll out of bed. Jesus Christ I need water. My eyes land on the spot on floor where the red once laid. My stomach lurches, last night keeps wanting to come up in waves. The parking lot, the parking lot, I smile and immediately groan. I waved at a group of smokers while I fucked her in the parking lot.
We left the parking lot quickly. All winking smiles and hands. Had to get home - had to get somewhere to lay down. My blood bubbled the vodka up into my brain - I remember leaving the parking lot then throwing her down on my bed. Then the act. Le petite mort.
It’s never the act worth reveling in, it’s the build up, the anticipation. The trying and failing, the push and pull. Waking up the next morning and having the memories slowly wash over you. Not believing it’s real until you recall that moment when it was all said and done, when you hung your head backwards off the bed and saw the most beautiful thing in a world. A deep crimson red bra, tossed asunder.