sticky icky icky
July 20, 2012
I remember the first time I woke up drunk. It was the day he was leaving for Berlin. We went out the night before. A black celebration, like Depeche Mode said. I had just taken my first pole dancing class (soon to be last but that’s neither here nor there). I went home after class to smoke a spliff. I got his text. We’re here. I went down to Rivington.
It was February and there was snow, lots of it. And it was a strange and surreal to feel it all slipping out of my grasp. But I wasn’t holding on, any longer.
“Thanks for coming,” he looked at me as I sat next to him. I knew exactly what he meant. I didn’t want to come. But how could I not. This was our last night together. We had been together every single day for nearly two years. Twenty-four-seven. Neither of us knew how we did it. Live and work together. It’s what I wanted. Reminds me why what I want never works in the end.
Martini for the lady, it had been. And then another and another and I think in was three in an hour. My head was spinninn. “Come on, let’s go” he said and we took a cab uptown, along the FDR. It was kinda beautiful and amazing and sad and he had his head in my lap and I couldn’t focus on anything but I remember lights sparkling like diamonds against the velvet sky. The sky was black. I remember that. Cause it rarely happens. And the lights were white, like stars in the sky but they were inside apartments shining bright and high. Close but not quite is close enough for tonight.
And the cab went to the Heights and we stumbled home. He sat on the sofa and I said, “You wanna see what I learned in class today?” And he watched with unfocused eyes appreciatively, and we both got it was over. It had been for a long time. And then I stumbled off to bed to pass out. I think I was kinda unconscious. Like drunk dreaming as the ceiling washed over me like waves lapping at the shore.
He stayed watching TV until when. Then he came to bed and I was lying there and I couldn’t feel a thing. All I remember is at one point I awoke, it musta been around six. And I got outta bed and it wasn’t like a I walked but more like I flew down the hall and the reason I remember it is I went face first into the closet door. And there were these sharp metal somethings where I once hung the whip he bought and never used. And now the whip like everything else was gone and all that remained was all that was left. And I remember that as I swung the door open, those metal prongs passed much too close by my face, and I thought, “Fuck, I am drrrrrunk.” Like drunker than I was when I fell asleep.
I didn’t want to disturb him. But I couldn’t sleep. Or be. Or do a damn thing. Except sit on the sofa watching Saturday morning cartoons as I rolled a couple of spliffs and smoked the hours away. As my drunk drained away, it became a hangover of legendary proportions. And it felt better to be in pain, than to be in pain. And I sat there watching whatever I was watching until he awoke and gave me that grin of his.
All that remained was a blue suitcase that The Cat had taken to sleeping on top of. “She knows,” he said. “My smell. It’s all taken out of the house and it’s all concentrated right there. She knows I’m leaving,” he remarked remarkably. And I think even though she kept sending me messages not so secretly, even The Cat was going to miss him a little bit. He had been a fixture, like the picture moldings and casement windows in my private little Silver Hill.
“You wanna come?” he asked me as he put on his coat.
“Ohh it’s time.”
I put on shoes. Got my keys. We got into the elevator together for the last time. Went all the way down. Silence is reverence. That was nice. And kinda profound.
Did we hug? I think we did. Tears in my eyes never dropped and no words on my lips, as his scruff brushed against my cheek for the last time. He stepped forward, headed through the door. I watched as he looked back and said, “Thank you for everything.”
And then he was gone. The End.
What motivates you to keep writing? asks Day 13.
I awoke this morning, still a lil drunk and I didn’t sleep much last night. Nothing like it used to be. Used to be? Was that like Monday? Fuck me (giggle). See, now I wake up drunk and I write for an hour. And this is how I start my day. Cause yesterday I started eating again. And then I went to see Mr. Johnson and poured myself a victory bottle. And came to a new reality.
Be wary of your words lest they betray you.
I love men.
Ohmagosh. They are so good for me. Keep me clear and focused on the present tense. Mr. Johnson is commenting on the Romantic, and I’m saying “That’s me,” and he’s saying, “That’s life,” and I’m getting it. It’s so easy to pour it on and pour it out but it can be sticky icky icky. I never thought of that. I’m not even at a place to articulate any of it, except to say…
What motivates me to keep writing? Umm. Sanity.