BmW X5 off the side of mulholland Drive. relaxed, happy, and coming from some dinner at some house in the hills, you would take a corner a bit too fast. off the cliff you would sail, the night air whistling in your ears. other times, when you are away doing a job in the forests
of Canada or deep in the tropics of Brazil or in the desert heat of mojave, i wonder if you will come back. maybe the cam- era car smashes into something. maybe the helicopter goes down in a fiery wail. maybe your plane skids off the runway. i see myself at your funeral, greeting your friends, standing
with your family. allowing myself to be comforted and told how wonderful it was that i stuck with you for this long, how much joy i brought you. i worry that i would not be able to pick the right music for
the event. i sometimes try to trick you into telling me what your all-time favorite songs are, but you never say, and i can’t admit why i’m asking.
FFF i remember that Los angeles winter night when we met.
i pull the door open and there you are — blond hair hang- ing soft and straight, body cloaked in a black leather blazer, eyes curious. as i extend my hand, you raise your gaze, and we lock eyes: blue to blue. the energy sparks and time slows. i know this is no ordinary meeting. i can’t put words to it beyond this. We’re not even through our first glass of wine when you
kiss me. Surrounded by people and teetering on a barstool, i’m uncomfortable and compelled, nervous and thrilled, angry and relieved. You apologize and sip the merlot. Your eyes twinkle like a little boy who just shoved an oreo in his mouth when his mother wasn’t looking. Satisfied. Satiated. You smile. Dinner progresses. i rush to tell you everything and noth-
ing. i realize i’m in strange waters. it doesn’t help that you’re used to getting what you want, when you want it. that you are accustomed to performance. i flutter near the heat. Back in your car, we go for a drive near my neighborhood.
You stop at the top of a hill. the black velvet night below bejeweled with gold and white sparkles. “this,” you say, “is where i’ll build a house some day.” i believe you. Hands in jeans pockets, you ask if you may
kiss me again. Here, alone and in the dark, i relax into it. Your lips are smooth, insistent. i feel like i’m swirling around my- self, no longer tethered to the earth. Later, i’m sitting outside alone. the canyon beyond is dark.
it’s December, and i’m wearing a wool coat. Some wizardry is at work, fusing me to you. Why this thought is enthralling,
rather than terrifying, escapes me. it has begun. FFF
one day, i get in my car and drive north. i have no plan, just the need to put space and time between us. the first few
miles are the hardest. Your angry heat blasts me. You don’t like to be alone. i’m not sure what the repercussions might be for this act
of independence, but i’m afraid. of what, i’m unclear. Go back, a part of me begs. But the sun is turning a rose-gold. the car keeps driving, with me as its passenger. Flying past a sign promising Lake Casitas, i take a similar–sounding exit, Casitas Pass road, and roll down my window. the breeze brushes my cheek. i wind through the town: quaint shops, a family in matching flip-flops, a surfer riding a bike with his board tucked under an arm. i follow him across the train tracks and catch a whiff of grilling cheeseburgers. it’s been a long time since i’ve had a burger. i guide my car into an empty space at the end of the
road and get out. the salty smell of sea fills me; gulls overhead squawk at my arrival. i slip off my shoes and pad barefoot down the warm sidewalk. my toes dig into the loose sand, and i climb up on top of the berm, a manmade attempt to guard against fierce storms. i admire the sun hanging low in a tangerine sky. i permit thoughts of you to touch my mind. the wild, dangerous you. the creative genius. the lost boy. the fac- ets of you are as vast and varied as the waves washing the beach below. Perhaps it was the thrill of being wanted so much that
drew me to you. or the secret knowledge i alone seem to possess, the rosetta Stone to your authentic self, that has bound me to you. Soon i must accept defeat; i have not been able to put to rest the fighting, angry, hurting boy lodged in the man. You run too hot and too cold. there are threats inherent
in these inconsistencies. the smoke from nearby campfires reminds me of Girl
Scout weekends. a group of kids scream as the waves chase them. a happy birthday balloon hovers above a picnic table. the silhouette of a paddleboarder slides across the water. i think about the berm i’ve built up over time to pro- tect me from you, the me that has been under siege. the low growl of a bulldozer shifting gears rumbles
through the air. at the other end of the beach, it’s leveling out the sand, tearing down the mound, opening up the shoreline. i have allowed, and you have taken. i must own up to
this fact as much as i’d like to see your body underwater and your mouth stuffed with kelp. But in this beautiful place, you seem far away. this letter to you isn’t finished. But it will be, one day. i’m already so tired of writing it.¢
WINtEr2011 85
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