newford

Mellifluous
2018-09-20 01:40:23 (UTC)

Baseball

I walked home alone. What time was it again? At least after midnight, because I was walking home from the nightclub. Past the railroad tracks, past the busy main road, and into residential streets. When I passed him in the middle of the road, he was nothing more than a silhouette. The street light was behind him so I could hardly make out his face, but we said hi quickly and impulsively, I followed up with asking if he had any water on him. I really was parched. The alcohol diminished back to a buzz, dehydration set in. No, I don't, he said. Okay.

I made it to the other side of the road, when I hear him call out. I turn around. If I was really that thirsty, his apartment was nearby, he said. My mind recalling this memory once again will skew it just a little from the last time I remembered it. Was he standing bathed in the light of the street post, or was he in the shadow of a tree? I question this detail because I don't remember his face. Not truly. Whatever image of his face that is in my mind now, doesn't look like him, but it feels like him.

James shared an apartment with another roommate. The banners and flags that adorned his living room tells me he's an athlete. Baseball scholarship. He gave me a bottle of water and he burnt the pizza he was baking in the oven. In my ravished state, I said I would eat it, but he wouldn't budge. He made me another.

There is a security in dressing up and going out clubbing. You and everyone else is a fuzzy image in a larger even fuzzier image. The ear numbing loudness, the turbulent crowd swaying with and against you. Everyone is intoxicated and it's dark. Intimacy is not commonly found here. I don't remember what we talked about. Nothing important, but I remember feeling close to him, as I sat at his kitchen table waiting for his second attempt at making a pizza. James looked at me; head on, eyes straight ahead, at me. I let my gaze fall into his as silence fell around us. No one looked away. If the world were to have fell apart at that very moment in time, neither of us would have noticed. It was the feeling of complete intimacy; true vulnerability that I had never felt before.

I asked for a tour of his house. He showed me his room. Normal, slightly disheveled, cramped. I looked around and just barely caught it, did a slow double take. A strip of photos taken in a photo booth of him and a pretty girl, hanging crookedly on the wall. Your girlfriend, I asked gently, but playfully. He catches my tone, sees where I'm seeing. He levels his composure. His playfulness is dimmed, but he's not panicked. Yeah, he said.

They had been together since their junior year of high school, six or so years, but she stayed behind and he left to go to school here. She lived far, forgot where. They only got to see each other twice a year. Yeah, I wasn't the first girl he's brought home. I had to ask, why? A great girl was waiting for you after you graduate. You've got a job lined up in Arizona, and she's heading there to be with you. Why cheat on her? He didn't know. Maybe he was lonely, maybe he wanted to explore. Maybe he didn't want to be with her, but he also didn't want to leave her with so much time invested already. It was his last year. He was graduating in a few weeks, or was it a week?

Even so, I wasn't upset at him. I only felt sorry for his girlfriend. After watching a movie, and kissing him, we ended back in his room. But he couldn't do it; he couldn't get it up. I became frustrated and sleepy, fell asleep naked on his bed. I felt him pull the blankets over me before he went to sleep on the couch. I only slept a few hours. Woke up around dawn, just as he was waking up. I asked if he would give me a ride back. He said his car was parked down near the grocery market, and said if I walked with him, he would. It was quite a walk.

I think back and wonder what could have happened had I did walk with him. Would we have gotten to know each other in a mostly sober condition? Would we have been friends now? Could we have still been talking? I don't know. It might have just been another night for him, but I don't think so. He was neither defensive about his "secret" nor ashamed of it. He shared openly his feelings. He offered food. He let me be when I slept. It was not forceful, or demanding, or awkward, or strange. It was... contentment. He wasn't my lover. He wasn't my friend. He wasn't a stranger. He just was. We just were. The sex didn't really happen, but it was the least important thing that night.

We hugged goodbye. I never saw him again. I haven't felt that feeling since.




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