Bad Timing: The Response

Dear Unstable,

I shouldn't be shocked to receive your letter, although I'll admit it took a few days to muster the courage to read it. I should have written my own letter years ago. Instead I cowered away and tried to forget. There's so much I want to say, and yet I'm hesitant because I don't want to open old wounds. But maybe you know what it is I need, to rip the bandage off and let it be seen for what it is. A scar that I have carried, a scar that was self-inflicted.

Our memories may differ; there are things I wish I could remember better, and there are things I have never, ever forgotten. I wish so much could have been different, and I agree that god is indeed one cruel fucking bastard.

I remember the night you came to the party at my squalid apartment on 2^nd street. Your boyfriend- let's call him Tim, surprised the absolute shit out of me when he showed up with you. I can still see you walking in, dressed for something much nicer than a grubby collection of boy-men pretending to be adults while they talk about anime and video games. Tim is, how can I put this generously... not in the same league as you. And yes, I'm immediately jealous and perplexed that he would show up with this girl who looks like: 1. an illustration from the cover of a Robert Jordan novel, and 2. possibly under-age.

You looked nervous, and I don't blame you, and Tim being the social genius that he is, drifts off to chat with our mentally repressed friends instead of staying with you. I think my fiancé, let's call her Lisa, spots you first and introduces herself. Lisa, ever the charitable one, but we will get to her later. Lisa then walked back over to me and points you out (as if I haven't already seen you). I gamely offer to introduce myself and it is all for show when I have already been scheming what to say to you.

It's hard to know what lies beneath the appearance you see. The more I watch you, the more I see how you are watching everyone else. I can see how you keep pulling that sparkling gray sweater around you, the one you have layered over that dusky purple tunic and then those poufy black pants that remind me of a genie. And then there are those little black boots that hurt your feet. It's all so carefully layered together in this bohemian way because you wanted to look nice for Tim. Dumbass Tim who has wandered off without his date, who doesn't know a soul at this party full of older classmen.

I remember walking up to you and feeling nervous. Which, yes, is unusual for me. Your eyes narrow from behind those John Lennon-esque glasses and I can see you take a step back, steeling yourself for whatever garbage I'm about to dribble out. I made a joke, and you almost smiled. I keep talking and then you finally say something, and I can't hear it because I've listened to heavy metal on my headphones for way too many years. When I make the gesture for I-can't-hear-you with my hand to my ear, you repeat yourself with more volume. Your voice is soft and also deeper than I expected it to be. I get you to speak some more and I realize that even your voice is attractive. It has this maturity that proves you are not as young as I think you are, and even if you are, you are certainly smarter than your peers.

Just when I've gotten you to laugh, another dumbass friend of mine walks up- we'll call him Jared. I can see that Jared is looking you up and down, and not because he is also a fan of the fantasy writings of Robert Jordan. I will forgive Jared for his low-brow technique on most occasions, but tonight is not one of them. His crass attempt to hit on you fails, and I shut him down. I can see the look of relief on your face when he- as you so aptly phrased it- "slithers off", and I realize how quickly it pissed me off. I've been taking my psych classes at UW, and I can already tell why I am so easily set off by Jared's booty hustle. This is not some chivalrous/fatherly instinct on my part, even if Lisa sees it as that (and continues to see our interactions as that for some time).

I forget about everyone else at the party. I forget where Lisa is, I forget where dumbass Tim is, and I don't care what time I was supposed to kick everyone out by so that Lisa could get some sleep before she gets up for work at the ungodly hour of 6am on a Sunday. I just want to keep talking with you. I make a good show of introducing you to people, letting Lisa get you some water while I briefly escape to the bathroom. The panic is starting to set in and I am tempted to take a hit of something to try to calm myself. Lisa still doesn't know all the shit I do at this point, and like any good addict I hide all my paraphernalia away. Acid might make me trip balls and make a fool of myself, and weed is a gamble- could make me hilarious or paranoid as fuck. So, I hedge my bets on being stone cold sober other than the 1 beer I've had, and come back out to face you.

Lisa has ushered Tim back to your side, which irritates me, but I quickly realize he's gotten more than wasted for the both of us. We settle down on my shitty assortment of living room furniture and Tim, ever the gentleman, has strewn himself out on the futon and forced you to sit on the floor. You didn't sit on the futon, and I remember this because I could feel my nerves prickling as you sat near my feet like a fairy that has flown down and settled herself onto our stained oriental rug.

We keep talking and you become more animated and more open as Tim slips into unconsciousness. I get distracted every time you flick your long hair over your shoulder. People are trickling out and leaving, and it only makes me happier to have less noise and less distraction. Somehow I've backed myself into a strange subject as I tell you about my grandparent's spooky house, and I don't want to sound like a nut, but you are gamely listening to it all and nodding. Then you share a story about an old rocking horse toy that moved by itself, and I can tell it is not some fictitious anecdote. You lower your voice, gaining a hit of seriousness that I find needs even more quiet so I can hear you over fucking Tim's snoring.

Lisa goes to bed, and she looks only a little concerned that I am sitting with this young woman in our living room, but Tim is still there as our unconscious chaperone. I tell you I want to smoke and yes, it is just as blatant a ruse as you think it is. I want to be alone with you, and when you eagerly accept my unimaginative invitation, I am happy.

When we go outside it's colder than I realize it would be, because I'm from Southern California and I still don't understand that other places have seasons where it is not perennially 75 degrees year-round. I can tell you're cold, and I'm cold too, but goddamn Tim and his snoring are not about to ruin my conversations with you. It's also dark out there, just as you remember, and I remember wanting to see you but also feeling there was some safety in that darkness. You make that funny statement about how the vacant lot from the old auto garage looks like a cemetery, and I think you are... all sorts of things that I can't admit yet.

I remember how serious we get, how I'm getting tragic and morose because fuck it all, why not tell a stranger about your fucked up childhood. I don't know why I drifted down that road, but I think it's because you are so patient and let me ramble, but you also listen. You ask questions, clearly paying attention to the demented topics I drift to. And I think I want to tell you things that I haven't told a soul because you seem like just the person who might actually believe me.

The smoke from my cigarette helps to give me cover when I get to the worst of it, when I'm starting to fall apart because my meds are wearing off and I always get weepy if I stay up too late. Your eyes are full of sympathy, while your face gives me a sad smile. And when you make your own little tragic confession, I am floored. You know exactly what I'm alluding to, without the gory details, and I know what you mean when you say how men want to show a girl a good time, but she better be ready to pay for it. I think that it sounds like a line from an old movie, something in the sultry voice of a young Lauren Bacall when she asked Bogart if he knew how to whistle. It sounds so cool and mature and yet so revealing and awful, and I think that you are the most extraordinary creature that has sprung from this earth.

I almost kissed you just standing there. But me and my dumb cigarettes. So we sit, and it's even worse. You tuck your silky amber-brown hair over a shoulder, and I want to touch you again so I can prove to myself that it was not my imagination that conjured you up. I remember when you touched my scar from the M80 I blew up and yes, that was also a cheap shot to somehow bring it back to me because you make it so easy for me to talk to you. And for that split second, I can see your eyes no longer just sympathetic or understanding. There's something inside your soft brown eyes that is making me feel insane. Like I might die or burst or go mad with laughing. You are the thing that feels like magic, something that I need and want to possess so I can feel like magic too.

I've never kissed a girl with glasses on, and I realize I need to be careful so that I don't smoosh them into your face. That look you think I'm giving you is not me being sexy, it's me being cautious for a change. If I want to kiss you, after everything we've talked about earlier in the evening, I better fucking make sure you want to kiss me too. And thankfully, you do.

You are so light and gentle, echoing that fairylike feeling that I might crush you if I'm not careful. But as soon as I get just a hint that you are as into this as I am, I nearly fucking lose my mind. When you smile at me... that little grin you have that makes your already elfish features look even more impish and devious. Yes, you can look devious too. I have to muster all my restraint to not get carried away. Only a little portion of my brain is screaming at me that Lisa is sleeping upstairs in the room that partially overlooks that wood deck, and she could look out and see us. I could give two shits about Tim. But you have a say in this too, and I know I've gone too far when I hit your shirt. I tried to sort of hook my finger in the opening of your sweater, thinking I could segue into getting beneath it and getting my hands on you. When I caress you, I feel like I've touched some magical object that I may be cursed for befouling with my unworthy hands. So I stop.

To my relief, you are beyond cool and calm about my erratic behavior. You do not make me feel as cringe-worthy as you should, and I think we both know that saying less is better. But I'm still rotten for not saying anything else, for giving you no clue as to why I did what I did, other than the obvious hormonal urges. For the next two weeks I keep giving myself that weak excuse. That I did it because of lust and lax morals. That you are easily charmed by an egomaniac stoner who dresses in black t-shirts. But as soon as dumbass Tim shows up at our apartment again with you in tow, I know I am seriously fucked.

That night I've had one beer already and did a bong hit hours before you showed up. My mind is feeling loose and sloshy, and you only look slightly more real this time in that baggy hippy shawl and jeans. When our eyes meet, I think I can see fear in yours, and I feel like shit. I hate myself more than I usually do, and my friend, let's call him Bryan, is the one you find me arguing with. I love Bryan like a brother, and he knows I'm letting off steam with him, and he always knows how to talk me down. As soon as you walk up, I know he can tell you are the reason I am so keyed up. He's a near clairvoyant when he asks if I was "being respectful of Lisa" in regards to you. After all these years, he never betrayed my confidence, but I should've taken his advice. And I should have been respectful of you.

I know it's only a matter of time before I weasel you away to have you all to myself. This time you're being cagey and sarcastic, guarded. I feel like you have x-ray vision that knows how badly I want you, and how badly I'm portraying this. My response to your sarcasm is only more sarcasm; and yes, I'm an asshole when I call you jailbait. For some illogical reason, I don't like to see you drinking. I think I'm somehow corrupting you and the alcohol is proof of this. My magical fairy is being ruined by my den of iniquity, or more correctly, by my desires. I can tell that I've offended you and it's a miracle you don't just pour your drink over my head and storm off.

The only option I have left is to explain my complicated history with alcohol. Why I hate the smell of it and why I prefer to get wasted on any other substance known to man. I make you feel sorry for me and a part of me knows this was intentional and I hate myself even more. But you are unbelievably charitable and sympathetic. Correction- empathetic. You patiently listen to me, you relate to me your own alcohol related traumas, and I feel this connection to you that I have not felt with anyone. Not with Lisa, not with my best friend Bryan, not even with my own brother. This all swarms up inside of me and I want to cry and scream and kiss you. But I don't want to hurt you again. I don't want to ruin you the way I ruin everything else.

The frown you saw on my face is that inward anger. It doesn't surprise me that you picked up on that, because you are quickly knowing me better than I know myself. For years, I told myself that you kissed me on that second occasion. Clearly our memories differ, so I will go with your version because it's probably more accurate. I'm sure my face gave it all away, and for some unknowable reason, you are willing to indulge my irrational need. Except this time the kiss far surpasses simple lust and curiosity. When we kiss, I feel a truth so far down in my soul that I have no words for it. I do not feel like this when I kiss Lisa. I do not feel like this with anyone. And maybe that frown you see again is me trying to understand this, trying to comprehend the reality that maybe the person I'm planning on marrying is not who I am supposed to be with. The skeptic in me tries to push this thought away, it tries to discredit what I feel with you. A denial that feels like swallowing razor blades and chasing it down with battery acid, a denial that slowly disintegrates me from the inside out.

That night, when you go to leave, I am half tempted to tell the lazy boy-man sleeping on my couch to fuck off and leave you alone. I think I make a few underhanded comments and innuendos even, but Tim is too fucking dense to pick up on it. You seem a little pleased at my comments, and giggle. My body responds to just that sound and as soon as you leave I go into the bathroom because... I have to do something about it. Lisa is sleeping and she needs to get up early, and I'm saying this not to disgust you, but because I want you to know what a hold you had on me. The normal dulling effects of alcohol and weed do not lessen my ability to self-gratify, and it's still not enough afterwards. I don't know how I'm going to forget you, I don't know how to even say your name and not embarrass myself with a raging hard-on.

Feeling this bodily discontent I go into my bedroom and I wake Lisa up because this will not stand in my very male way of thinking. She's groggy and needs to wake up by first going through a checklist of things- did I feed the cats, is the dog back in, did you and Tim leave already, and didn't I think Tim's new girlfriend is so sweet? Of all the things, she wants to talk about you. She makes me brush my teeth to erase my beer breath, and she chats about how much she likes you and how nice you are. I nod with my minty foaming mouth and let her carry on, erstwhile trying to conceal my guilt. But she really likes you- she likes how kind and funny you are, how smart and responsible with a job already even while in college, and thinks you will be really great for Tim who has repeatedly fucked up one relationship after another. She thinks we should all get together more often, and would it be ok if we planned a dinner for next Saturday, just the four of us. I am only too easily compelled to agree, feeling like a slimy conniving asshole as I climb into bed with her, hoping she will inspire a fraction of the feelings I have after thinking about nothing but you as I express them with her physically.

So, there you are again in my living room just a week later. I'm sober this time, and I behave myself. I've planned out how to conduct our conversations and what not to say. I take all the right meds for a change and feel like I almost don't need them when you smile at me. Lisa wants the girls to cook together and leave the boys to chat. Your hilarious response is the men can go buy their dinner if they want to eat something edible, and that you will show her how to microwave a frozen meal.

Why are you so funny and irreverent for your age? Every time I think I can stump you on some cult-like kernel of cultural trivia, you beat me at my know-it-all game. I finally know your birthdate when I make a game of teasing Tim so that he'll show me your ID because I'm so incredibly paranoid about how old you actually are. I make Tim explain how he met you in his Early American Literature class and when he asked you out. I get as many details out of him without arousing suspicion, and then I make you answer them as well. I keep asking these personal questions, hoping the mundane details of your life will somehow answer the question I want to know of myself. I collect all this data and assess everything about you except the most vital piece that is wanting to know why I feel this way.

Lisa thinks we are all becoming fast friends, she loves having another "stable" couple to hang out with, a precursor for the domestic life she pines for. Little does she know how I'm plotting Tim's untimely death, and making eyes at you. All the ridiculous schemes I'd do just so I could be close to you. Such shameless flirting and lame innuendos, and you endured it all. And better yet, you flirted back. You made your own little jokes and looks and I wanted to kiss you while no one was looking. I wanted to tell you to quit being naughty because I fucking loved it.

I remember the bathtub. My shoes had exacted some miraculous trick to create just the excuse I needed to hold you. Lisa felt so bad and was distracted by your injury, it was only too perfect. You were wearing that light blue silk top and joked about my "dangerously smelly shoes" being a "landmine". That little grin on your face watching to see if she can make me crack... so I wanted to torture you and poured that freezing cold ice on your foot and wanted to hear you scream for me. I remember that in our horseplay I accidentally knocked your glasses off. Maybe it's a trite cliché about the sexy librarian, but it wasn't that. What I saw was your eyes unobscured by the reflection that your glasses make, that barrier taken away so I could see into your eyes even more deeply. Your eyelashes are so long and dark they don't look real, but they are. And then you keep daring me with your mouthy quips, grinning when I try to keep you quiet so I can have you all to myself. The look in your eyes as I keep my finger on your lips... I think I will need the ice just to cool off. I could hear Lisa's footsteps coming down the hall to check on us, and if she hadn't, I would have indeed kissed you. I almost did anyway.

This carries on for weeks and I secretly pray that one of them will notice the way we behave. I can't believe that no one else sees this, no one catches what I feel so overtly that I have to physically relieve my pent up self every time you leave. There was a night we tried to watch a movie and Lisa gets bored and goes to make some dessert and Tim falls asleep per usual (when does he not sleep?). You have one end of the couch and Lisa had been sitting on the other end, but I make myself comfortable in her place. I do nothing, and neither do you, but your eyes say everything. Lisa comes back and playfully makes me give back her spot, and you offer to give me your spot. I refuse, and Lisa pragmatically says we can all fit on the couch, which is true if all 3 people want to be squished up against each other. I wait for her to move so that I will sit on the end and you ladies will be the ones squished, but Lisa says she likes her spot and she can see better from there, so I must sit in the middle and somehow preserve propriety in this. It is absolute torture. You smell like vanilla and honeysuckle, your cinnamon colored hair is hanging down on the side of your shoulder nearest me and it shimmers in the flickering light of our ancient TV. Your dainty elf feet are tucked up on the couch and I want to see if they are ticklish. But I don't.