We walked through the upset sidewalks of Charleston back to
where we had parked the car in front of a large old southern house. My tummy
was full of Cotes du Rhone and foie gras. The city wasn’t loud but it was vibrant,
with girls in dresses and boys in collared shirts walking up and down the city
streets, in and out of bars and restaurants- giggling, arguing, whispering
loudly. Your hand felt so big in my hand, and in my flats I was petite beside
your tall, lean frame.
At dinner you talked about being a little boy. Do you think
you had a lonely childhood? I can imagine you as a little boy, running around
the neighborhood, squishing ants and collecting crickets. We went to the same
elementary school for one year, but you were a year below me. Do you think we
passed in the halls? I was 7 and you
were 6. All I remember about that school is the sprawling cemetery across the
grounds, with big, old tombstones engraved with Confederates and their wives. I
wrote a story there about Batman that won an award and I read it out over the
morning announcements. Did you like my Batman story? Did you pull the onion
grass from the ground and stick it under other little girls’ noses?
We held hands as we strolled across the road under the
Charleston streetlights. Your legs are long and I had to take quick little
steps to keep up. The lights blurred a bit from the wine, and the breeze was
cool on our faces. Back at the hotel I quickly got undressed and tossed myself
in the huge, white bed. It wasn’t long before I was snoozing away even before
taking advantage of a goodnight kiss.
I wonder what your first kiss was like. Did you laugh?
You said you had braces in high school. Were you embarrassed
about them? I was. I didn’t smile in pictures for two years. I don’t guess you were embarrassed. It is hard
to see you embarrassed about much. Your face stays calm and easy, your gait and
body lack tension and stress. Very, very cool. It is hard to read you most of
the time. By comparison I am a disaster. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my
emotions all over my face.
When we first got together I was terrified of you. It was
the first time in my life I met a man who was kind and mature, caring and
secure. It was the first time I met someone stable and open to loving and
exploring. I wanted to run so far away from this. And sometimes I still do,
almost a year later.
In the morning the sun streamed in through the semi open
curtains and the “do not disturb” card lightly slapped against the back of the
hotel door. You seemed really far away in the boat of a bed so I curled next to
you and kissed your head and neck softly. It was still and calm, and I put my
lips next to your ear and whispered “I love you.” It was the first time in ten
years and dozens of beds I was sincere. You were still, cool, and silent for a
minute. Then, “I love you too” you said, pulling your arms around me and
pressing your cheek to my chest.
Maybe American boys aren’t so bad and maybe it is okay to
need someone sometimes?
