The (not so) Lonesome, Crowded [East]
"Michaela, hey. Since, um, the drinks are out of your system can we talk?"
I tried to tell myself "no" and go back to sleep, but ended up arguing with myself about how there was nothing to talk about. The sun came up through the skylight in Asit's fifth-floor walk-up and at 7:00 I fell asleep again. My brain is a bitch to me, though, sometimes, and it woke me up at 8:00, 9:00, 10:00, and I let her win at 11:00.
I don't know what there was to discuss with myself. My evening was unforeseen, and unparralled in all the events of my brief NYC life.
I had a five hour conversation with a friend. No telephone. No keyboard. No imagination. It was a real, live person I was with last night. I know, because he held my hand. If I've learned one thing in the last three and a half years it is that my hand doesn't just hold itself.
Illusive.
Allusive.
Ellusive.
Desireable for poetry, yes, but not in reality. Last night's enjoyment wasn't based on what happened a year ago, or what could happen in a year, but on what was truly happening right then.
I've never used the word "palpable" but it is pertinent in describing the fact that I felt bashful.
Bullshit, you say?
Yeah, I wouldn't have believed it about myself either. But if I hadn't been able to cut my blushing with a knife I would never have admitted to it. The proof is in the fact that there were times when I simply said nothing at all, and pretended to read liquor labels.
It was so cold on the walk back. Matthew commented on the wind being painful. Yes. The cold was excrutiating; but it made his touch that much warmer. I walked and thought to myself, "if I couldn't feel the sting of this wind, then I also wouldn't be able to feel this arm on my waist."
I walked up the stairs and checked my email before going back out to meet the only three girls I know in NY.
There in my inbox was a "greetings from across the pond." Something that would have had the effect of the one drop of water on the tongue of the man in hell suddenly seemed itself to dry to please me. All I could think was, "Tylere's not here."
The email was friendly and pleasant and I am always happy to hear from him. But so many people I've met here in the city make me think, "I'd rather sit online and talk to an old friend than hang out with this dude in person."
Matthew was different.
I actually prefered the events of our evening together to the illusive, allusive, and ellusive Tylere-email.
Plus, it would have taken Matthew and me seven and a half months to email back and forth about all the things we talked about last night.
We met the girls at Max Fish and it sucked because it should have been called Max Sardines. I was not in the control-seat, though, so while we walked up Bowery past CBGB's and I glared inside (it's a shithole, I tell you, but warm) and heard the music, no one even slowed their pace. I turned to Asit to say, "what d'you think's going on in there?" But the moment escaped and we went to a frat-bar.
Half a beer and I left.
The girls thought I was bailing on them.
I just didn't want to ruin a good night.
They had out-of-towners with them, so I swore on my daddy's grave that we TOTALLY kick next week.
So Sunday. Sunny Day. Time for brunch at Essex (I haven't eaten in 24 hours... silly me).
