I’ve always been fascinated with the small nuances of life, and your house is full of them. From your big shoes resting at the foot of the steps to the plaques in Italian hanging on the wall to the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table to the smell of whatever you cooked yourself for breakfast on Saturday… everything about your home makes me want to be a part of it.
I think I’ve stumbled into something great at work. It’s all commission but how much they pay us to do what we do is almost inordinate. I sense a potential to make adult money here, not just “I’ve got a job but not a life yet” money. This is great!
I’ve got my weekends back! I’m looking forward to doing the things I actually enjoy on Saturdays— preaching, ultimate frisbee, sleeping, studying and lurking on Tumblr. Huzzah!
I’ve been looking at apartments on Craigslist and on other sites. I’m just looking for a small place to hide out alone until singleness becomes completely intolerable.
My thoughts have been consumed with the Italian for days. I’m not sleepless, but I am restless. I wish this would end one way or the other, and soon.
I live in South Warren. Warren is a city that has been growing quite well these last few years, but the part of town that I stay in is emptying out. I’ve written before about the empty houses and storefronts, as well as the fields of wildflowers. The businesses that are open—mom and pop shops, a small library, old fashioned laundromats— feel as though they have been stolen from another era. Without the loud rap music blaring from the cars and the lack of Jim Crow laws, you’d swear it was 1960 instead of 2010.
This part of town— small, quiet, imbued in nostalgia— is perfect for writers. It’s just urban enough to have all of the creature comforts of modern life, but old enough to where you can write and think and dream in peaceful, wide-open space.
I took an enormous risk today. When I woke up, I didn’t know I was going to do it. When I saw you in the crowd today, I didn’t know I was going to do it. When I caught you staring at me from your seat above me, I didn’t know I was going to do it.
But I did.
After eating with my sister and taking a walk in the park, I decided to come upstairs and to that meeting. To my surprise (and joy) you were there, and were the only other person I knew in the room. I smiled, and then sat right next to you, as if I was supposed to be there all along.
What happened next confirmed all of my notions about you.
You squirmed the entire time. I smiled as I watched you drop possessions on the floor, adjust your socks, pick at your shoes, adjust your tie, clap at the wrong time, wring your hands. I heard the soft scratch of your fingertips against your beard.I heard you take three long, deep breaths from your nose and then swallow, hard. My own mouth watered as I took in that smell that only belongs to you— subtle, primal and utterly masculine. The curve of your wide, strong shoulder brushed against my back at least twice. I could feel the heat of your presence all over.
Sitting next to you during the meeting felt natural. You crossed your left leg over your right knee; I stretched my legs out in front of me. We sat there together, close, mired in slow, achy, undisclosed desire as we listened about how we can expand our service to the Lord. The notion of reaching out and touching you did not seem unattainable at all.
"In that book which is my memory, on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life.’" - La Vita Nuova, Dante
Dear Hot Guy That Works at the Pizza Place Around the Corner:
Thank you for giving me two slices of pizza even though I only paid for one. I appreciate the fact that my weight is just fine in your limpid brown eyes. Clearly, I need to use my Joan Holloway voice more often.
I get tired of this disheveled , fraying existence in my parents’ basement. Piles of dirty clothes, a cot in the corner, a 20 year old car my father and I passive-aggressively fight over; answering telephones and wearing cheap frocks from the thrift store and playing my 20 dollar guitar poorly on Sunday nights; wishing I lived in more normal conditions so I can perform more admirably.
I lie awake at night asking myself, “How did I get here?”