a Colloquial Narrative [27 mars 2009]
He emerged from a doorway as I disentangled myself from four different people’s limbs. I made it two steps before I caught sight of him and halted.
What I touched, saw, felt, and said was actually a depiction of the tangible moment as it occurred, fine-tuned by a screenwriter, cinematographer, best boy, and gaffer. What he had said and how he grinned and the long, warm squeeze we shared as a salutation was made perfect by a director perched on an elevated canvas stool.
It was weirdly cinematic. I couldn’t hack it, man.
"Look, this is fucking queer and I’ve nothing to say to you at this moment. Also, my pit hair is starting to dread. I’ll be seeing you," is what I told him as I lurched for the bathroom. And I bloody did.
His loupine silhouette lurked in my peripheral the whole evening through. Someone would try to wring some contact information out of me and I’d just look a few feet past a looming head at the wolf, with whom I shared wry smiles.
"These schmucks haven’t got a chance," we thought at each other. We raised our glasses and drank to one another’s good health and spirit from opposite ends of the room, returned to nodding at - humouring, really - whichever ninny it was we were engaged with.
Eventually, I had to remove my glasses from their residency on my nose. It was too much.
The ninnies lurked in the distance. We were the closest to one another as we’d been in months. I couldn’t stop touching him.
I gave him a sternal rub and cupped his left pectoral to see if it was still larger than the other. I gripped his quadriceps and hit the space between his patella and shin bone to see if he still kicked.
"Could you stop touching me for a second?" he asked, a look cousins with imploration on his face.
I did and counted, "One Mississippi," returning to his nooks and crannies.
"I... didn’t want to hurt somebody," he offered in explanation as I recrossed his legs, throwing the right over the left to check another reflex.
I turned to eyeball the body he was referring to and wasn’t impressed. Another ninny, an old fling of his, a friend of a friend of mine.
"I worry that you’re just some body," I murmured into the space between his eyebrows, rubbing his temples with my thumbs.
"I’m not," he told my neck. "And you aren’t, either."
The place cleared out. The DJs finally felt at liberty to display real emotion. One sprinted across the space, leaping over chairs and their occupants.
"I can’t wait for burgers!" he cried, arms raised, jubilant.
The other one, packing up turntables, threw a record at him. It grazed his arm and had him howling.
I held the elbow of the friend I came with, extricating her from the death grip of a boy too short for her. Wolfboy followed as I ushered her to a cab, ensuring she didn’t hit her drunk head or trip over her own drunk feet.
"You’re a good friend," he told me once I gave the cabbie an address and shut the door.
"Well, thanks," I said as we linked arms, shoved our hands into our pockets, and started walking to a warm place.
What I touched, saw, felt, and said was actually a depiction of the tangible moment as it occurred, fine-tuned by a screenwriter, cinematographer, best boy, and gaffer. What he had said and how he grinned and the long, warm squeeze we shared as a salutation was made perfect by a director perched on an elevated canvas stool.
It was weirdly cinematic. I couldn’t hack it, man.
"Look, this is fucking queer and I’ve nothing to say to you at this moment. Also, my pit hair is starting to dread. I’ll be seeing you," is what I told him as I lurched for the bathroom. And I bloody did.
His loupine silhouette lurked in my peripheral the whole evening through. Someone would try to wring some contact information out of me and I’d just look a few feet past a looming head at the wolf, with whom I shared wry smiles.
"These schmucks haven’t got a chance," we thought at each other. We raised our glasses and drank to one another’s good health and spirit from opposite ends of the room, returned to nodding at - humouring, really - whichever ninny it was we were engaged with.
Eventually, I had to remove my glasses from their residency on my nose. It was too much.
The ninnies lurked in the distance. We were the closest to one another as we’d been in months. I couldn’t stop touching him.
I gave him a sternal rub and cupped his left pectoral to see if it was still larger than the other. I gripped his quadriceps and hit the space between his patella and shin bone to see if he still kicked.
"Could you stop touching me for a second?" he asked, a look cousins with imploration on his face.
I did and counted, "One Mississippi," returning to his nooks and crannies.
"I... didn’t want to hurt somebody," he offered in explanation as I recrossed his legs, throwing the right over the left to check another reflex.
I turned to eyeball the body he was referring to and wasn’t impressed. Another ninny, an old fling of his, a friend of a friend of mine.
"I worry that you’re just some body," I murmured into the space between his eyebrows, rubbing his temples with my thumbs.
"I’m not," he told my neck. "And you aren’t, either."
The place cleared out. The DJs finally felt at liberty to display real emotion. One sprinted across the space, leaping over chairs and their occupants.
"I can’t wait for burgers!" he cried, arms raised, jubilant.
The other one, packing up turntables, threw a record at him. It grazed his arm and had him howling.
I held the elbow of the friend I came with, extricating her from the death grip of a boy too short for her. Wolfboy followed as I ushered her to a cab, ensuring she didn’t hit her drunk head or trip over her own drunk feet.
"You’re a good friend," he told me once I gave the cabbie an address and shut the door.
"Well, thanks," I said as we linked arms, shoved our hands into our pockets, and started walking to a warm place.