(no subject)
The first person I fell in love with was named James. I was fourteen and he was sixteen. He didn't like his first name, so he used his middle name, instead, which, he actually liked less. His father was rich. He was double jointed. He looked like an Egon Schiele painting. He was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.
I remember the first time we kissed. It was in his yellow car with the white leather. We were outside of my house. We looked at each other for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I leaned forward. We looked at each other longer. I couldn't feel him breathing and I thought he'd become a lake. I shifted my weight to get out of the car, and he grabbed my wrist. He looked terrified, like he didn't want me to leave.
I loved his hands, but they also scared me. They looked like the hands that would reach for you from beneath a black cloak - something from a nightmare. Cold, bony, and pale.
You wouldn't be able to understand it.
When he reached for you with his hands, you forgot where to look. It was like when someone blows smoke in your face, and the stream escapes their lips and creeps and billows out until it becomes translucent and is all around you.
We had a lot in common and we also didn't have a lot in common.
We both didn't like the heat.
I like to read and he doesn't.
We both liked being cold and trying to get warm.
He likes red, and grey. I like blue, and green.
Sometime I would wear red and grey and he would wear blue and green and we would pretend it wasn't on purpose.
He likes to carry cash and I like to carry change.
He never wanted to see anything that wasn't a kid's movie in theaters.
We both love music. He was a musician. I was a musician. His mother taught piano, my dad played guitar. But I think what we both had in common most was we both liked to be in danger.
I remember the time we jumped in the pool with our clothes on and tried to hold our breath as long as we could. I remember the time he was driving and he pulled his hat over his eyes and accelerated faster, and I grabbed the steering wheel, and then let go. I remember the time we drank too much and fell asleep in the park. When we woke up, we were covered in dead leaves and our shoes were missing. We were trying to watch the stars. We would argue and I would leave in a fury and leave the house late at night for some place where men drove by in cars with tinted windows and I would wear outfits that my mother would never let me out of the house in, if I still knew my mother. He'd pick me up from work on his Vespa and I would put on the other helmet, which he wrote the words "Other Helmet" in Sharpie, and my customers would still be eating their food and would watch us drive off. And you would weave between cars and run red lights.
I remember the time we took Xanax and shared a coffee from the donut shop named after the family where every male was named Jerry. We went to see a movie and fell asleep in the theater before it started, and when we woke up, the theater was empty save for a woman who was sweeping popcorn from beneath the seats.
We both have sleep jolts, which I think are called "hypnogogic jerk". Neurologists say it's when your mind leaves your body while you sleep, and abruptly goes back into it. When I had one, he would push my hands and arms into my chest and squeeze my whole body into his, like a child pushing two different colored pieces of clay into one, to make a new color. Maybe a red-grey-blue-green. Sometimes his jolts were so violent, he would be afraid to go back to sleep. He'd cover his face with his hands and reach for my hair with smokey pale hands, as if he were drowning and reaching for a rope to pull him to safety. I was his lifeboat.
I remember the morning there was thick fog that cut tops off building and trees and heads off people. We decided to ditch school and go to the beach. He was eighteen and I was sixteen. We walked around and suddenly the fog grew so thick and violent, I couldn't see him and I thought I was lost. I tried not to trip in the sand and I called out his name - first and middle. After several minutes, I began to shake and was so cold and scared. I made out his shape and he approached me after a while. I held him and one of his arms was limp at his side. He asked me if I was scared and I asked if I should be. I started to walk towards the water and I felt his hand slip into mine. We talked about what it would be like if it were to snow in Los Angeles, or if we were to keep our hands clasped and walk into the water until no one saw us anymore. We wondered if we'd sink or float. How long it would take our bodies to adjust to the water. Was it green or grey or blue. Would a boat find us still holding hands. Would waves carry us back to shore, and if so, would we still be holding hands?
I remember the way we'd yell until our lips cracked and bled and I'd smile because it meant he was thinking about me. I remember when he was really angry, or really drunk, or really curious, his accent would slip, and I'd try not to laugh.
I remember when we were at a gallery and I walked into the restroom and when I came out, four girls were hoovering over you while you stood with your arms folded and you introduced me as your wife and we walked away with tightened lips, trying not to laugh.
I remember him putting his ear to my belly and listening for a heartbeat.
I remember when I told him I was leaving for Spain and he said he would fall in love with someone else and I knew he was lying, but then he did.
I remember the time I said I wished I was a stingray and he bought me a snorkeling set and a grey cloak.
I loved him because he could draw me out to dark and open places like a current pulls a naive swimmer out to sea.
Things fluctuate. My life became a hole that only he could fill. He is like a burn. Not the kind that you get in a car accident, or from saving something from a burning building. Not one that disfigures. A burn you get on your forearm from cooking a meal that you later couldn't enjoy. It's healed, but there's still a mark there to remind you that it all happened. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of it, like when you are carrying a suitcase, or handing the pepper to someone. When you do, you think about when it happened and it's as if you can feel it again. But now, it's just a small mark. A sweet red mark, a kiss. You can cover it and walk in the street and smile when someone holds the door open for you.
He's kind of like a burn. I keep telling myself it's healed but it's still there and it happened in my life and now he's a kiss I see and ignore and numb.
He's a burn on my arm.
I remember the first time we kissed. It was in his yellow car with the white leather. We were outside of my house. We looked at each other for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I leaned forward. We looked at each other longer. I couldn't feel him breathing and I thought he'd become a lake. I shifted my weight to get out of the car, and he grabbed my wrist. He looked terrified, like he didn't want me to leave.
I loved his hands, but they also scared me. They looked like the hands that would reach for you from beneath a black cloak - something from a nightmare. Cold, bony, and pale.
You wouldn't be able to understand it.
When he reached for you with his hands, you forgot where to look. It was like when someone blows smoke in your face, and the stream escapes their lips and creeps and billows out until it becomes translucent and is all around you.
We had a lot in common and we also didn't have a lot in common.
We both didn't like the heat.
I like to read and he doesn't.
We both liked being cold and trying to get warm.
He likes red, and grey. I like blue, and green.
Sometime I would wear red and grey and he would wear blue and green and we would pretend it wasn't on purpose.
He likes to carry cash and I like to carry change.
He never wanted to see anything that wasn't a kid's movie in theaters.
We both love music. He was a musician. I was a musician. His mother taught piano, my dad played guitar. But I think what we both had in common most was we both liked to be in danger.
I remember the time we jumped in the pool with our clothes on and tried to hold our breath as long as we could. I remember the time he was driving and he pulled his hat over his eyes and accelerated faster, and I grabbed the steering wheel, and then let go. I remember the time we drank too much and fell asleep in the park. When we woke up, we were covered in dead leaves and our shoes were missing. We were trying to watch the stars. We would argue and I would leave in a fury and leave the house late at night for some place where men drove by in cars with tinted windows and I would wear outfits that my mother would never let me out of the house in, if I still knew my mother. He'd pick me up from work on his Vespa and I would put on the other helmet, which he wrote the words "Other Helmet" in Sharpie, and my customers would still be eating their food and would watch us drive off. And you would weave between cars and run red lights.
I remember the time we took Xanax and shared a coffee from the donut shop named after the family where every male was named Jerry. We went to see a movie and fell asleep in the theater before it started, and when we woke up, the theater was empty save for a woman who was sweeping popcorn from beneath the seats.
We both have sleep jolts, which I think are called "hypnogogic jerk". Neurologists say it's when your mind leaves your body while you sleep, and abruptly goes back into it. When I had one, he would push my hands and arms into my chest and squeeze my whole body into his, like a child pushing two different colored pieces of clay into one, to make a new color. Maybe a red-grey-blue-green. Sometimes his jolts were so violent, he would be afraid to go back to sleep. He'd cover his face with his hands and reach for my hair with smokey pale hands, as if he were drowning and reaching for a rope to pull him to safety. I was his lifeboat.
I remember the morning there was thick fog that cut tops off building and trees and heads off people. We decided to ditch school and go to the beach. He was eighteen and I was sixteen. We walked around and suddenly the fog grew so thick and violent, I couldn't see him and I thought I was lost. I tried not to trip in the sand and I called out his name - first and middle. After several minutes, I began to shake and was so cold and scared. I made out his shape and he approached me after a while. I held him and one of his arms was limp at his side. He asked me if I was scared and I asked if I should be. I started to walk towards the water and I felt his hand slip into mine. We talked about what it would be like if it were to snow in Los Angeles, or if we were to keep our hands clasped and walk into the water until no one saw us anymore. We wondered if we'd sink or float. How long it would take our bodies to adjust to the water. Was it green or grey or blue. Would a boat find us still holding hands. Would waves carry us back to shore, and if so, would we still be holding hands?
I remember the way we'd yell until our lips cracked and bled and I'd smile because it meant he was thinking about me. I remember when he was really angry, or really drunk, or really curious, his accent would slip, and I'd try not to laugh.
I remember when we were at a gallery and I walked into the restroom and when I came out, four girls were hoovering over you while you stood with your arms folded and you introduced me as your wife and we walked away with tightened lips, trying not to laugh.
I remember him putting his ear to my belly and listening for a heartbeat.
I remember when I told him I was leaving for Spain and he said he would fall in love with someone else and I knew he was lying, but then he did.
I remember the time I said I wished I was a stingray and he bought me a snorkeling set and a grey cloak.
I loved him because he could draw me out to dark and open places like a current pulls a naive swimmer out to sea.
Things fluctuate. My life became a hole that only he could fill. He is like a burn. Not the kind that you get in a car accident, or from saving something from a burning building. Not one that disfigures. A burn you get on your forearm from cooking a meal that you later couldn't enjoy. It's healed, but there's still a mark there to remind you that it all happened. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of it, like when you are carrying a suitcase, or handing the pepper to someone. When you do, you think about when it happened and it's as if you can feel it again. But now, it's just a small mark. A sweet red mark, a kiss. You can cover it and walk in the street and smile when someone holds the door open for you.
He's kind of like a burn. I keep telling myself it's healed but it's still there and it happened in my life and now he's a kiss I see and ignore and numb.
He's a burn on my arm.