The Devils Are Really Angels
So, my weekend.
I have been in a tumult and am having difficulty focusing. I've wanted to write but been unable. It should be so easy, but it isn't.
The first leg of my trip brought me to New London, Connecticut, to board the ferry that would take me into Long Island. It was fast and easy, about three and a half hours. My ipod had decided to fuck itself, so I flipped radio stations constantly. They play Blondie in every state: Heart of Glass.
My reservation for the ferry was at 5:00pm. I had left early so that I would have plenty of time for random disaster, but I arrived at 2:30 - they bumped me to the 3:00 ferry. I sat and seethed at Fox News on the way across the sound, stuck next to Old Lady Sudoku with no avenue of escape.
We unloaded in Orient Point as the sun was coming down and I drove out into vast fields bordering massive estates. It was an hour's drive from there to the hotel - I was early, She had to rush to meet me.
Now that I was in Long Island, that I had successfully navigated into the proper state and was now merely miles away, every bit of wracked nerve eased. When I heard Her voice, oddly still familiar after two years of silence, there was no more concern.
We met. We pulled together and kissed, perfect. Everything was right.
We ate, we talked - I spent the evening reveling in the clarity of her presence. This was Her, Bliss. It was absolutely that.
A bottle of white wine, smoke. Everything falling into place without effort. I showed her a few of my favorite things.
The next day, I woke up to Her, tusseled and sleepy and warm. Coffee, breakfast, shopping, driving - mostly talking and touching. I was wrong about divinity - loss has nothing to do with it.
That evening, we went to dinner and a movie with some friends of Hers, a sweet and comfortable couple whose company was truly delightful. Word games, great food, easy conversation. The movie was fantastically fucking terrible, but it was dark and I am a bad man.
Evening, back at the hotel. There was still some wine. We spoke in the most illicit language, then drifted off to sleep.
Sunday, the day I had to leave. I woke her softly.
Breakfast, the mall, more driving, more talking, more touching. We sat in a book store and leafed through tattoo magazines, drinking girly coffee and laughing at pixelated ass crack. Utopia. I bought a ring - something I have not done in a very long time. Comedy and tragedy on a small silver band. Appropriate.
Time moves far too fast. We revisited the brewpub we had gone to the day before. Coffee, appetizers. Her eyes are truly remarkable.
The drive back to my car, the looming spectre of leaving. I kept saying it in my head, those three words. I bit my tongue. I would release them before she drove away, laying myself open in the most terrifying way - this was the plan.
We clutched each other, kissed. I started to shake. "Have a safe drive," she said. "It should be fine," I replied. She pulled away. Gone. I watched her drive away, falling to pieces.
The drive home, well. I've talked about that. It was long, lonely, heavy. The scent of her clung to me, every moment replayed on a loop, each time more devastating. I was now purposefully, necessarily driving away from something I could never have believed existed and it crushed me.
When I made it home, I found Her online. We talked for hours. I did not bite my tongue. That night, I went to bed more alone than I have ever been in my life, yet completely devoid of loneliness. I love Her. She loves me.
My weekend was, in a word, perfect.
Unrelated, Cross posted from 50wordstories:
Irony
On the counter in an old red planter there is a dead bonzai tree. It is bent and withered, its green gone brown and rotten. Beneath its boughs in a tangle of putrifying moss sits a smooth round stone. Upon its face one word is scrawled in faded yellow: Hope.
Note:
This was written on a dollar bill because I had nothing else to write on when I saw it and I immediately needed to write it down.
I have been in a tumult and am having difficulty focusing. I've wanted to write but been unable. It should be so easy, but it isn't.
The first leg of my trip brought me to New London, Connecticut, to board the ferry that would take me into Long Island. It was fast and easy, about three and a half hours. My ipod had decided to fuck itself, so I flipped radio stations constantly. They play Blondie in every state: Heart of Glass.
My reservation for the ferry was at 5:00pm. I had left early so that I would have plenty of time for random disaster, but I arrived at 2:30 - they bumped me to the 3:00 ferry. I sat and seethed at Fox News on the way across the sound, stuck next to Old Lady Sudoku with no avenue of escape.
We unloaded in Orient Point as the sun was coming down and I drove out into vast fields bordering massive estates. It was an hour's drive from there to the hotel - I was early, She had to rush to meet me.
Now that I was in Long Island, that I had successfully navigated into the proper state and was now merely miles away, every bit of wracked nerve eased. When I heard Her voice, oddly still familiar after two years of silence, there was no more concern.
We met. We pulled together and kissed, perfect. Everything was right.
We ate, we talked - I spent the evening reveling in the clarity of her presence. This was Her, Bliss. It was absolutely that.
A bottle of white wine, smoke. Everything falling into place without effort. I showed her a few of my favorite things.
The next day, I woke up to Her, tusseled and sleepy and warm. Coffee, breakfast, shopping, driving - mostly talking and touching. I was wrong about divinity - loss has nothing to do with it.
That evening, we went to dinner and a movie with some friends of Hers, a sweet and comfortable couple whose company was truly delightful. Word games, great food, easy conversation. The movie was fantastically fucking terrible, but it was dark and I am a bad man.
Evening, back at the hotel. There was still some wine. We spoke in the most illicit language, then drifted off to sleep.
Sunday, the day I had to leave. I woke her softly.
Breakfast, the mall, more driving, more talking, more touching. We sat in a book store and leafed through tattoo magazines, drinking girly coffee and laughing at pixelated ass crack. Utopia. I bought a ring - something I have not done in a very long time. Comedy and tragedy on a small silver band. Appropriate.
Time moves far too fast. We revisited the brewpub we had gone to the day before. Coffee, appetizers. Her eyes are truly remarkable.
The drive back to my car, the looming spectre of leaving. I kept saying it in my head, those three words. I bit my tongue. I would release them before she drove away, laying myself open in the most terrifying way - this was the plan.
We clutched each other, kissed. I started to shake. "Have a safe drive," she said. "It should be fine," I replied. She pulled away. Gone. I watched her drive away, falling to pieces.
The drive home, well. I've talked about that. It was long, lonely, heavy. The scent of her clung to me, every moment replayed on a loop, each time more devastating. I was now purposefully, necessarily driving away from something I could never have believed existed and it crushed me.
When I made it home, I found Her online. We talked for hours. I did not bite my tongue. That night, I went to bed more alone than I have ever been in my life, yet completely devoid of loneliness. I love Her. She loves me.
My weekend was, in a word, perfect.
Unrelated, Cross posted from 50wordstories:
Irony
On the counter in an old red planter there is a dead bonzai tree. It is bent and withered, its green gone brown and rotten. Beneath its boughs in a tangle of putrifying moss sits a smooth round stone. Upon its face one word is scrawled in faded yellow: Hope.
Note:
This was written on a dollar bill because I had nothing else to write on when I saw it and I immediately needed to write it down.