I went through my old notebooks last night and found some bits and pieces I scrawled in margins, mostly during Cultural Anthropology and Women in American History. At the time I was really hung up on this guy. Sometimes I needed to tell someone the things that I could never tell him. Sometimes the words for all the weird, shitty things I was feeling would just hit me. I wrote them down in pencil, kept them safely nestled among lists and timelines and bullet-points. These thoughts seem so foreign now, though I know I felt these things very keenly at the time. The words are sort of pretty. I’m not sure if I consciously designed them that way or if the force of my emotion constructed them. Either way, they’re a window to the me I was a year ago. I’ll share two little pieces with you.
You brought out mandarin orange vodka and cherry 7Up, warm from their time in the trunk under the friendly sun. The four of us drank straight from the bottles, which made it feel even more illegal and scandalous. I confessed, laughing, that I’d never had vodka before…and proceeded to drink the most of anyone. I made a fool of myself, I know, but you smiled and laughed and I felt okay.
It was a little embarrassing, having to grab you for balance, but it was a nice excuse to touch you. We talked and talked and my head was pleasantly heavy. I don’t remember the details. I do remember being electrified by your eyes. The world had softened under a thin layer of fog, but your eyes were clear and very blue.
Three days later, the question remains: was I drunk on cheap vodka or you, your eyes?
Today was rainy and stormy and I spent a few hours daydreaming about the storm in your eyes. I wondered what it might be like to spend a rainy day tangled up under the covers with you. I want to press myself to you and feel your warmth, sink my tired head against the solid mass of your chest and have the privilege of hearing the muffled thud of your heart. I want to know what your fingertips would feel like against my temples, what your voice would sound like over the constant patter of the rain.
But these are daydreams, and they will never come true because I don’t deserve them, and I don’t deserve you.