Am.
I walked home tonight from work, as I always do. I came up out of the Tenth Street viaduct and was passing the Blockbuster there on the corner of Eighth Avenue when I saw an old friend walking out. We waved to each other, and I walked up to say hello. We hugged. It was a good hug.
We hadn’t seen each other in a long time. I’m not good at keeping in touch with people, and she’s even worse than I am. We used to be inseparable, but these days we frequently go months without seeing each other. Nevertheless, each time we do see each other it’s as if we’d never parted, and tonight was no different. When we’re together, each of us is the only important thing in the world to the other.
We stood in the cold and talked, while people came and went, while they closed the store and all the employees went home. We stood and talked for four hours, about Nietzsche and the WTO and Italy and the War on Drugs and David Cronenberg. As always we found it very hard to break away from each other. Among the things we talked about was how perfectly we suit each other, and it’s true; I don’t believe that people are made for each other, but we fit together so well that she makes me doubt that belief.
We suit each other ideally except for the one way we’ve never tried. This was not my decision. She is, in my opinion, as nearly perfect as it is possible for a human being to be: beautiful, brilliant, an avid chess player and voracious reader, an insightful thinker about to begin her Ph.D. program in Political Science, a former soldier who defers to no one, tireless, conscientious, passionate and compassionate. She could have, at any time over the last eight years, had me if she’d wanted me. She just didn’t, as far as I could tell, and that was okay. I wanted everything, but to have her at all, to have her as I had her, was enough.
Tonight she confessed to me that, if it wasn’t for my alcoholism, we would be together, would always have been together. The only thing standing between us is that she grew up around alcoholics, and she could never feel safe with one. I understand that. I absolutely don’t fault her for that. But I wish I didn’t know it.
I don’t say this looking for pity, or even understanding. If you haven't been here, there is no way you could understand anyway. I just want to say this, to write it here where it will be available to me forever, as a reminder of who I am.
Tonight I wanted so badly for this feeling, the way we felt together, the way we always feel when we’re together, to last forever. For the first time I knew what the key was to making that happen. I wanted to tell her that for her I would swear never to drink again. I wanted her to believe it. She wanted to believe it. I want to mean it, but it just isn’t true. I wish it was.