stay with me for a while (that's an awfully real gun)
How ridiculous for him to come over, twinkle and smile at me, jump out of the shower, say ready for bed and I nod oh boy yes, and scramble under the covers where he exhales a huge sigh of relief and gathers me into his arms. How ridiculous for him to run his fingers through my hair, to trace the outlines of my hands, to softly touch the thinly shielded small of my back as I'm curled into him, and then slowly say that he thinks we should just be friends. Be friends. In my queen size bed, friends. And I laugh and say, "What?" and he says what's happening between us isn't fair to me. Fair to me? Since when are you my bodyguard? And I scoot a foot away from him on the bed and stare out of the window long after he's fallen asleep. He sleeps facing me. We wake up, he gets ready for work. We walk around my apartment in our underwear, laughing and cracking jokes and sparkling all over the place at each other, huddled in my kitchen laughing, looking through my old polaroids. All those old people I used to be. Him putting on one of my shirts, hugging me goodbye, and riding his bike off to work. No kiss. We're just friends. I fall into the peacock chair in the corner of the room, next to the bed dressed in cold sheets. I stared out of the window.
And what's even more ridiculous is an hour later, as I'm leaving my apartment with my bike key in hand and my helmet firmly on my head, chin strap fastened. The front door is closed for repairs so I take the back stairs, and rounding the corner on the unpaved back alley, the gravel under my boot loses its footing and boom. A dropped bag of groceries. Motionless, crumpled, bloody, helmet on. The painter high on a ladder above me yells, "You alright?" I pick up a bloody elbow and dust the rocks out of the dripping cuts, howled, "Fuuuuuuck." And that's when I really started crying. I hadn't cried yet, and there, absolutely pathetic in my stupid white helmet on the gravel I cry. I dejectedly pick myself up. I shuffle along to my bike locked up on the sidewalk. I sniffle a little more. It's my turn to be pathetic. I let the wind on the bicycle dry the blood on my arms. How ridiculous.
And what's even more ridiculous is an hour later, as I'm leaving my apartment with my bike key in hand and my helmet firmly on my head, chin strap fastened. The front door is closed for repairs so I take the back stairs, and rounding the corner on the unpaved back alley, the gravel under my boot loses its footing and boom. A dropped bag of groceries. Motionless, crumpled, bloody, helmet on. The painter high on a ladder above me yells, "You alright?" I pick up a bloody elbow and dust the rocks out of the dripping cuts, howled, "Fuuuuuuck." And that's when I really started crying. I hadn't cried yet, and there, absolutely pathetic in my stupid white helmet on the gravel I cry. I dejectedly pick myself up. I shuffle along to my bike locked up on the sidewalk. I sniffle a little more. It's my turn to be pathetic. I let the wind on the bicycle dry the blood on my arms. How ridiculous.