that's what she said
well, i also wanted to be in love. deep romantic stupid bullshit love where i mailed vaguely illicit photos of myself to my lover, in black and white, printed from my best friend's deskside photo printer, a photo he took one morning as i read a long story on my ipad about a new york city hustler, a woman who had and lost it all, in hopes of finding inspiration for my own story, a story about a man who might have become my lover -- it was as yet unclear.
in the photo, i am topless, but you can only see the tops of my breasts and my string bikini tanlines, i am twirling a strand of hair, still damp from the shower, between my forefinger and my thumb and i am looking down, mouth slightly open. i had just said to my best friend, do you want to see a movie later? i know because he was also taking video. one of the first in a home video series, one i had begged him to start after watching my uncle's videos from the early 90s and which brought me to tears. no reason, really. just seeing my older brother play the violin at a family party, he was smiling so big when everyone clapped and he was missing a few teeth, and it was something about his innocence that blindsided me, something i saw in him that i had forgotten or never really known.
"I think im gonna quit my job," he emailed me last sunday from vietnam, where he moved just two months ago.
we feel a lot of things but i just wrote back, "that sucks. maybe give it a little more time?"
on the back of the photo, all glossy and precious, i wanted to copy a dream poem. i thought he would like that. number 96, or something like that. maybe a dream i had dreamt beside him. i hadn't written it yet. i hadn't found an envelope big enough yet. i wasn't sure if our situation even warranted a letter in the mail, a love postcard, no less, but i wanted that.
in the photo, i am topless, but you can only see the tops of my breasts and my string bikini tanlines, i am twirling a strand of hair, still damp from the shower, between my forefinger and my thumb and i am looking down, mouth slightly open. i had just said to my best friend, do you want to see a movie later? i know because he was also taking video. one of the first in a home video series, one i had begged him to start after watching my uncle's videos from the early 90s and which brought me to tears. no reason, really. just seeing my older brother play the violin at a family party, he was smiling so big when everyone clapped and he was missing a few teeth, and it was something about his innocence that blindsided me, something i saw in him that i had forgotten or never really known.
"I think im gonna quit my job," he emailed me last sunday from vietnam, where he moved just two months ago.
we feel a lot of things but i just wrote back, "that sucks. maybe give it a little more time?"
on the back of the photo, all glossy and precious, i wanted to copy a dream poem. i thought he would like that. number 96, or something like that. maybe a dream i had dreamt beside him. i hadn't written it yet. i hadn't found an envelope big enough yet. i wasn't sure if our situation even warranted a letter in the mail, a love postcard, no less, but i wanted that.