Greg

The artist.

Theme for a late winter fling - Part One

summer

Moving day, and two of my friends are helping me schlepp stuff two blocks over from my old place into the new one. We're in the lobby of my new building, waiting for the elevator, loaded down with boxes and bins. I'm exhausted but excited. Ding! The elevator doors open, and a dark-haired young man steps out. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, both of which look expensive and fit him well. He's tall and lean but well-muscled, with broad shoulders and a model's features: symmetrical face, strong jaw, full lips. He's easily ten years younger than me. My girlfriend, who's older than I am, shoots me a look as he walks by.

At the park, and he's walking his dog near where I'm walking mine. I notice his excellent posture. He says hello in a cheerful tone. His smile is expansive and genuine. Good god, I think. He really is handsome. He has a chow, a breed I don't particularly like, but I call out anyway, "Cool dog."

"Thanks," he replies. "He takes after me." I'm speechless at this bit of goofiness. It's LA, after all. Be cool or die. I can't think of what to say back, so I just smile and steer Chaucer past.

Late at night, in my building. Taking a load of laundry to the top floor; I'm a hot mess: tank top, sweats, no bra, no makeup, unbrushed hair. The elevator doors open to let me out, and he's standing there. "Oh!" I say, flustered. "Hi there." I silently curse my sloppiness. We step past one another. As I'm walking down the hall, he calls out from inside the elevator, in a slightly too-loud voice: "Where's your smile?" I turn and look back, unsure that I've heard him correctly. He's grinning, looking sheepish and silly and happy. It occurs to me he's likely drunk or high or both. "It's so cute," he says more quietly, just before the doors shut. I stand there for a few seconds, blinking, utterly nonplussed. I vow to never leave my apartment without lip gloss again.

The sidewalk outside my building. I'm heading to dinner with the man I'm dating, who has his arm around my shoulders. He's walking towards us on the sidewalk, carrying grocery bags. As we pass, I meet his gaze. He glances at my date and back at me, then looks away.

fall

The park again, at the informally designated hour for dog socialization and play. He and his dog join the group. Chaucer, who's been chasing a Jack Russell, breaks off from playing to greet them. It's the first time our dogs have actually met, and after a moment's consideration, Chaucer decides he's none too impressed. The feeling, apparently, is mutual, and before either of us know what's happening, there's snapping and lunging and barking and mayhem. We get them apart. I'm mortified and apologetic. He's polite but seems kind of annoyed. I drag Chaucer off. "Thank you," I say to Chaucer as we walk home. "I really appreciate the cock blocking you did back there." He trots happily alongside of me, wagging his tail and panting. He glances up at me in response. No problem, his look seems to say.

The building lobby, in the late afternoon. We're both walking our dogs. They're returning home; we're leaving. I yank Chaucer out of the way, scared of another scuffle. "No, no," he says. "Let's let them try again." I hesitantly agree, and let out the slack on Chaucer's leash. There's a second or two of calm sniffing, and then it's tooth and nail and chaos again. After we break them up, we each try to put the blame for the fight on our own dog. He says something about his having rescue issues, while I explain that mine has a newfound intolerance for anything more threatening than a shih tzu. This is the first time we've exchanged more than a few words, and I detect a mild Northeastern accent. Once Chaucer and I are alone outside, I remind him what an asshole he is. The characterization doesn't seem to bother him.

winter

Late night on a weekend, in the lobby of my building. I'm waiting for the elevator, which has been slow all day. He walks in the front door, says hello, and positions himself in front of the other elevator. He glances over at me, then up at the floor indicator above my elevator, then at the indicator above his own. "I'm going to win," he says. I'm tipsy from being out all night. I look over and narrow my eyes: challenge accepted. A few moments of silence while we wait and watch. Ding! He spreads his hands and smiles. See? I laugh, and we step into his elevator together. He relaxes against the wall, and I mirror him on the opposite side.

"How was your night?" I ask.

"It was good," he says. "I had a show." We're both drunk and rather shamelessly staring at one another.

"A show?" I inquire.

"Yeah," he says. "A gallery exhibit. I paint." As I'm getting out on my floor, he tells me the name of his website and encourages me to check it out. "My email's on there," he adds. "In case you see anything you like." I'm not sure if I'm being hit on or sold something. I bring up the site as soon as I get back to my apartment. I'm afraid I'll forget the address by morning if I don't.

The site is a comprehensive portfolio of his various creative works. There are images of his paintings, which are large, mixed media stencils of Hollywood icons. There's a link to a blog with short stories, and several clips of short films he's written and directed. There's a photography gallery, with mostly portraits, cityscapes, and some architectural shots. I read his bio and glance at his Facebook page and Twitter feed. I sit down and compose an email.

Hey Greg, it's Ellie, from the building (with the killer dog who's not really killer, except, apparently, where your pets are concerned). Thanks for sharing that link. Very cool stuff. Although, if you want my advice, you really need to expand your talents a bit. Film, photography, art, and writing only? I mean, no offense, but that's pretty weak...

I save the draft and go to bed. The next afternoon, I review what I've written, but make no edits. I click send, and almost simultaneously, a realization hits me: unless he assumes the numbers in my email address stand for July 5th, he's going to infer that I'm thirty-six years old.

That night, I receive four long paragraphs in reply, the wittiness of which give the impression that there's a good deal of thought behind them. And possibly some alcohol. In the letter, I'm invited to come see his paintings in person, in his apartment, which is six storeys up from mine. I'm still not entirely sure whether he's trying to sell me something, so I reply with equal playfulness, while making a point to assure him of my destitution. The invitation is enthusiastically repeated, along with more witty repartee. I text the phone number that's part of his email signature, and he texts back.

We message one another here and there over the next week, bantering and battling wits, and the following Sunday, he invites me up to his apartment for a drink.

Theme for a late winter fling - part 2

It's past four when he texts. I'm awake, of course, watching Netflix on my laptop, bleary-eyed and knowing I should attempt sleep, but stubbornly refusing to try.

I inadvertently beat a guy up. I mentally assess whether or not I'd be able to bail him out of jail, if need be. I have no money and no car. So, no.

What?? Are you ok? By way of answer, my phone rings. His speech is slurred. There was a disagreement, at a bar. Jumbo's Clown Room, actually (I chew amusedly on this detail). Some guy refused to move, he needed to close out his tab, words exchanged, a sucker punch thrown from behind. The details aren't clear or particularly interesting, but I'm invited to come upstairs for a full account. I hesitate. These late night/early morning visits are catching up with me, and I'm already exhausted. I also have plans to work the next night. I should definitely hang up, close my computer, and crash.

"I'll be up in a few minutes." I can hear his Cheshire grin when he says "Ok, see you then." Then something mumbled and I make out the word "baby" just before the disconnect. This is a thing between us. He occasionally calls me baby and I scold him.

"Don't call me that," I'll say without much conviction in my voice. I don't explain why it's verboten. I don't need to. The phone rings again immediately. "Yeah?"

"Just before I hung up, I said 'baby,' but I didn't mean anything. I was just..." He trails off.

"I'll see you in a minute," I say, and hang up. As I'm walking down the hall, I hear him step out of the elevator. I turn the corner, and he's wobbling towards me, grinning sheepishly.

"I realized tonight that you look exactly like Joseph Fiennes in Elizabeth," I tell him, as we hug. He ignores this.

"I punched a guy," he reminds me. He's definitely still drunk.

"I heard," I reply, and guide him back inside the elevator. He thumbs "PH" and slumps against the wall.

"I feel really bad," he says, looking suddenly serious. The story is repeated, with new, equally uninteresting details. He seems sobered by the second telling of events, his brow furrowed as he recounts his part in the clashing of egos. Back in his apartment, I sit on his kitchen island, next to his goldfish, who swims in a glass jug filled with nearly opaque greenish water.

"Roscoe needs a change," I observe. "Maybe you could squeeze that into your busy schedule of going out and starting bar fights." He fills the dog's bowl with filtered water and starts to undress, in the middle of the kitchen, with the lights on. Mock pouting, he walks around the corner and gets into his bed.

"I'm not speaking to you anymore," he calls out. "I wanted to see you, but you're just being mean." I climb into bed with him, but leave all of my clothes on. I'm mentally exhausted, but know I won't be able to sleep. He makes a valiant if tipsy attempt to undress me, but I won't let him get further than my socks, which immediately go missing in the covers. I know he's seconds away from passing out. And he does, quickly. I lay there for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of him beside me, warm and solid. When I try to slide away, he wakes up, grips me and whines.

"No, don't. You always leave me. Please stay with me." This is a familiar refrain. I never stay the night at his place, and am given hell for it. I refuse to sleep with him, and I refuse to sleep with him. These are the arbitrary boundaries I have set, and they give me some small sense of control. I relax back against him.

"A few more minutes," I say soothingly. I know he doesn't want to be alone, even while he sleeps. I stroke the tattoo on his upper arm. When I feel his breathing level out, I reach for my phone. Eventually, when I think he's sleeping deeply, I slowly try to extract myself. He wakes and wraps himself more tightly around me, murmuring his objection.

"I have to go," I say softly. "It's really late." His grip doesn't loosen.

"I love you." I hear it, but don't register a reaction either verbally or physically. This is unexpected and mildly alarming, but I know he's just drunk. We've been seeing one another since late winter, but on the most lighthearted and casual terms imaginable: late nights, after we've both been out, separately; each of us wanting the company and comforts of the opposite sex. There are few phone calls, fewer actual dates. He's devilishly clever, so there's lots of text bantering. And there's kissing and cuddling and laughing and drinking and occasionally, weed smoking. It's a relationship of convenience, mutual affection and appreciation, and it's all either of us wants.

That said, I'm more than a little glad he's ten years my junior, lest I crush. Badly. He's handsome and sweet and creative and whip smart, and I'm glad I don't have to take him seriously.

"I love you." He repeats himself more loudly, and I'm forced to reply, a sort of hushing noise that doesn't feel like it adequately addresses the dangerous territory we're skirting.

"Don't be ridiculous. You don't even know me." I feel slightly defensive when I say this, but it's true. He doesn't, really. The number of 100% sober conversations we've had can be counted on one hand. He doesn't ask a lot of questions of me, nor I of him. I tried at first, but he would deflect and joke his way out of any talk that felt even remotely serious. He wants to be a kid with me, I know. To play up the age difference. It helps keep things safe that way. He mumbles something about my cluelessness or unappreciativeness, and about my being his "favorite of everyone", then grows quiet again.

I lay holding him a bit longer, and eventually make my escape despite his renewed, sleepy protestations. I let myself out in the dark, and pad back to my apartment with bare feet. Chaucer, who is hopelessly in love with him, sniffs me excitedly. I refill his bowl with unfiltered water, and collapse into bed.

Theme For a Late Winter Fling, Part 3

Seven pm, and he texts. Whatcha up to?

I answer: What's the next question?

Want to get together for a bit? he asks. I glance at my place, take stock of myself.

My place and I are a mess. In a bit?

He says, Can't. Going to Hollywood to talk to a guy. I can't resist: Jumbo?

Don't worry Elizabeta, he texts. I'll find someone else to drive me to the ER.

Later, I'm on my way to the bodega to grab an ill-advised cup of 11:30 pm coffee when I run into him on the sidewalk. He pivots jauntily when he sees me, jumping out of the crosswalk to change course and head my way. He's bright eyed and cheery, and invites me to get a drink and a bite. I make him come back upstairs while I put on a different top, brush my teeth, and grab my ID. We go to Casey's Irish Pub, where we run into a new couple from our building, plus a female friend of theirs. We all team up for drinks and conversation, talking about the virtues of the Rhoomba and whether LSD should be taken after the age of twenty-five.

I end up at a table with the drunk model girlfriend; he stays at the bar engaging in an increasingly enthusiastic verbal pissing match with the boyfriend. At one point, the boyfriend calls over to me from the bar where they're sitting: "Did he make you chili from scratch?"

I look from the boyfriend to Greg, who’s smiling in anticipation of my praise. He knows I absolutely love his chili, and could eat a pot of it. His grin is so silly and guileless and goofy. I want to kiss him.

"Ugh, yes," I say. "So gross. He actually put yams in it. Yams! And they weren't even fully cooked. I was sick for days." Another round of drinks, more segregated conversation. I'm dying. Model girlfriend is friendly enough, but killing my neurons with boredom. He texts from a few feet away, still at full throttle with Boyfriend.

Hey. I text back: Next time we go out, I'm sitting you down at a table with a rock and walking away. Message received. He finds an excuse to get up and come join me at the table. The other girl sits with us. Sitting across from him, she tugs tipsily at his jacket sleeve.

"Hey," she slurs. "I have a question. How come you're so adorable?" I nearly spit beer all over the model. He kicks me under the table. The girl continues examining him. She points at a tattoo on his collar bone.

"What does that say?" she asks, unable to decipher the script lettering.

"It's latin for nice Jewish boy." She can't tell if he's fucking with her or not.

"Really?" she asks, frowning suspiciously. I shake my head, marveling. I have never in all my life met a bigger flirt.

"You do know he lives for this," I tell her. "To have girls in bars ask him about his tattoos?" He just laughs.

"It says memento mori," I say, and swallow the last of my drink, rising to leave. Back on the street, we compare notes on our respective conversations.

"She's a mess," I say. "And he sounds controlling and emotionally abusive, from what she said."

He nods. "He thinks he's very smart." We amble down the sidewalk, pleasantly buzzed and keyed up from socializing. He wants to eat at the Mexican food truck around the corner. I make him choose and order for me, while I try to puzzle out the Spanish on a huge sandwich board. There's a photograph of a goat on it.

"What exactly am I eating?" I ask. He grabs me and we hug, staggering when we lose our balance. When the food is ready, he walks me through the shelf of condiments, pointing out what's spicy and what's not. I don't interrupt, even though I spent most of my life in Arizona. I understand hot sauces just fine.

We eat as we walk slowly down the sidewalk. It's a street packed with bars and restaurants, all expelling patrons. It's two am. We'd chosen the mild and medium salsas, but our lips and tongues are on fire. In his hands, along with a paper plate loaded with food, are a handful of napkins. He drops a couple on accident, but when he sees my look of disapproval, drops a few more on purpose.

"Pick them up," I say warningly. He keeps his eyes on me, still eating, and tosses another napkin to the ground. The sidewalk around our feet is littered with white napkins. "I'm serious," I say threateningly. His eyes twinkle with mischief. I toss my plate into a trash can nearby. "If you ever want your dick in my mouth again, you'd better pick those up." He stuffs his plate in the trash, ignoring me. I grab his hand, and using all of my weight, try to force his arm to the ground where the napkins lay. I can't get him to budge. He's too tall and I'm laughing too hard. I yank his arm fruitlessly, and he starts smacking the seat of my jeans. Bargoers are all around us.

Suddenly he wraps his arms around my waist and launches me upside down and over his shoulder. I shriek. "My phone!" I pat my back pockets to make sure nothing has fallen out. He carries me across the street and towards our building. When he puts me down, I say, "I feel like Satan took a dump in my throat."

He sits on a brick planter by an ATM, and pulls me in for a kiss. Our movement triggers a harsh security light that floods us in fluorescence. "Thank you," I say towards the bank. "Lovely ambiance you're providing." He stands, turns, and starts to tug down his jeans.

"I feel like mooning this building right now," he declares. And he does just that.

Back upstairs, the intimacy feels different. I attribute it to how couple-ish the night felt, socializing as we did with another couple. He falls asleep, and I lay there for a while, looking at the art on his walls. An oversized, unfinished canvas hangs directly in front of the bed. He's doodled on it with spray paint: a stick figure in whose otherwise empty head is written "canvas", with oversized quotes. I sneak out before it gets light.

Theme For a Late Winter Fling, Part 4

Saturday morning, he texts. Small talk for a bit, then we drift into more serious territory. Before I know it, we're having a state of the union discussion. I tell him I don't want to be physically intimate anymore. That I still haven't recovered from the emotional devastation wrought by the relationship I had late last year. Which is true, and a large reason why I've never wanted to sleep with him. I've been associating sex with negative emotions since then, and, much as I've tried to get past it, I haven't yet. I've been dialing it in. It's sucked.

I try to explain. That part of me got very badly hurt last year, I say. So to protect itself, it packed the fuck up and left town. I don't know when it's coming back. I miss it, but I don't know how to get it back. This isn't actually the first time I've told him this, but he hasn't seemed to really get it. He seems to now, finally. He tells me he understands, and respects it completely.

I like hanging out with you, he writes. You're amazing.

It's not easy to admit something so personal about what I'm going through, and I say as much. Part of why I'm so upset is I fear you'll jet. And I like you in my life. I love who I am around you. I'm not usually so relaxed and confident and clever.

That's just you being you, he says back. You are relaxed, confident, and kinda clever. We spend a few lines arguing over who's the bigger mess emotionally, and promise to still hang out, provided we can manage to be truly just friends and not ride the fence. However, he says, he likes that I used the word "jet" because it suggests that were he to leave, it would be quickly and in style. And I appreciate that, he says. Better than prop-planing it out of there.

A little bit later, he makes a crack about visiting a wedding chapel downtown. When I don't answer, he nudges, Harhar? I had been busy getting ready for a housewarming party, and explain as much.

That's very nice of you. All those cold houses need help. Is it with a housewarming organization?

Stop it, I say.

I'm sorry, he writes back. But if it's a volunteer thing, I'd like to donate my time once or twice a month.

I have nothing to wear, I whine. I hate all my clothes.

Well you're gonna need to wear some if this place is as cold as it sounds.

—-

This morning, I have computer trouble and text him for help. He tells me to bring my laptop upstairs for a look. We walk his dog together and go for breakfast afterward. I ask him if he has any nicknames for his dog.

"Yes," he says. "Bad dog."

"No really," I say. "What do you call him? You must have some cute little endearments, that you say just when you're alone."

He looks at me, his eyes laughing but his mouth serious. "Syd. Syd Vicious. InSydious. Sydmeister. John Smalls. Mr. Nixon. Fluffy McGee. Malaysia." He goes on for another two minutes, the names growing ever more ridiculous. He doesn't stop to think once. They just pour out of him. I can't get a bite of food down, and I beg him to quit it.

"What?" he asks, deadpanning. "Those are all his names. You asked."

Back at his apartment, I sit on his lap while we reinstall software on my laptop. He plays a song for me. A pair of hot tears catch me off guard. I jump up abruptly to collect myself privately in the bathroom, but he sees my expression and grabs my arm before I can escape.

"What is it?" he asks quietly. "Why are you crying?" His eyes are soft and understanding. It still amazes me how amber they are. I just shake my head, and he doesn't press. "Come here," he says, and uses the corner of his shirt to wipe my face. There's no point in either of us saying what hangs heavily in the air: that the situation sucks. That it's a shame. That we get along perfectly, and we're crazy about one another's personalities. That there is chemistry and strong attraction, despite my temporarily damaged sense of sexuality. That it would never, ever get off the ground because he's ten years younger than me, and that it's better to rip off the bandaid now before we grow any more attached. We go to the couch and he holds me on his chest for the last time.

"Your shoes are filthy," he says.

"That's because they're shoes," I reply.

"No, really. Look." He grabs my phone. "Bend your knees," he commands, and snaps a picture. "See?" He holds up an image of my soles, grey with grime. When my desktop and files finally appear on my computer, I get up to leave. He walks me to the door and kisses my cheek. I hear the door latch shut behind me as I turn the corner of his hall. Back at home, I add the photo he took to an album I've titled "Greg." There are less than twenty photos in it.

Wet Paint

I came home from a walk tonight and when I got off the elevator on my floor, I could smell paint. As I rounded the corner in my hall, I saw there was a large poster tube propped against my door. The tube was painted with still-drying black and red hearts. Taped to it was a handmade card, with Elizabeth painted in silver and gold, with flourishes and flowers. On the top of the tube was written Tracy Ellie. Inside was a two by three foot, black and white printed photo of the Golden Gate Bridge, the sky dark with fog. It's my favorite of his shots.

The card was signed, Made with love by your mo'fuckin neighbor, George (which is not his name). I texted him. I love it. I may hook tonight in Hollywood just so I can afford a frame for it.

Enchante

Five am, and I can't sleep anymore, though I've only been down for about five hours. I'm desperate to get back on schedule, and wish more than anything I could let the dog out and then pass out again. I know it's impossible, though. I'm up. My best bet is to stay awake as late as possible tonight. The closer to two am I can fall asleep, the better. That's the schedule I need to be on: down between two and three, up around ten or eleven. It's the only way to survive nightclub hours.

There's no coffee, since I still haven't replaced the french press I broke last week while vacuuming. At Famima, I notice that while I've been filling my cup, the machine is still dripping. A small pool of coffee has collected on the counter. I quickly replace the pot and ask the cashier for a rag. He tells me not to worry about it. Oh, no sweat, he says. I don't get anything to eat.

I fiddle with the layout of my blog for a while, and work on a few of the pages. I revise my statement of childfreedom, though I'm still not happy with it. I don't know what it's missing. I don't know how to say what I want. But I feel ready to write my statement of atheism, and I do so, in one fervid shot. It comes quickly and easily, certain turns of phrase still floating in my mind from the last version I wrote. I re-read it a dozen times, wondering if I should pull a punch or two. But when I open the compose window, I instead find myself pushing it further. I don't want to compromise on it, so I let it stand, heavy and loud and unflinching.

Chaucer and I walk to the park, but it's hot, and we don't stay long. Back at the building, we're joined in the elevator by a neighbor on my floor, a husky man maybe five years younger than me with a floppy haircut and light blue eyes. Greg thinks he's gay, but I can't get a read. He's always very chatty and friendly with Chaucer, and he invites us to see his unit, which he knows I've got my eye on. Same square footage, same price, much better layout. He insists on letting Chaucer, who he calls Big Doggy, come in. While we discuss counter space and pay raises, Chauc wanders around sliming IKEA sofas and Expedit bookcases, still panting from his walk. It's 11 am, and I'm already exhausted. The dog is wiped out from the heat, and I realize if I stay at home I'll want to nap, too.

I run errands while catching up on texts with friends. It's a high traffic day on my phone: A girlfriend is having a small dinner party tomorrow night, and can I come? (Yes.) Another friend asks whether I caught Colbert last night (Not yet). My Vancouver friend sends my first weekly city pic and an update: he and his boyfriend have broken up, and when can I come up north to pull wingman duty? (When I've got the scratch, honey.) Another friend has the girl trouble blues, so I send him a Mom Jeans screenshot.

Greg sends me a pic which I stare at uncomprehendingly. It's the desk in our lobby, and on it are two boxes of plastic dog poo bags—the tear off kind that come in rolls. The bags are always there, for the use of residents with dogs. I see nothing remarkable about the photo, and I say as much. I'm urged to look closer. Then I see it. One box says "puppy poo"; the other, "people poo". It's beautifully done, seamless really. He even got the reflection of the lettering in the desk's glass.

I guess a lot of people from our building have been going number 2 on the street, he says.

You photoshopped this? I ask incredulously.

For your viewing pleasure, he says, with a smiley.

You're insane, I write back. I love it. Back home, I troll job listings. I spend a little while tweaking my resume, but don't send anything out. I don't return my dad's call from yesterday, though I make a promise to myself to send an email tonight. Chaucer's ready for another walk, and since it's so mild after the hot day, we stay out until near dark. He gets an unusual amount of attention this evening. People stop us on the sidewalk, wanting to talk to or about him, wanting to pet him or take his photo. I always forget how huge and out of place he looks, walking through the city streets.

A few steps from my door, a dark-complected man walking towards us calls out and moves to greet Chaucer. He smiles broadly and says something I don't understand. It takes me a moment to realize it's the Frenchman from the creperie around the corner. He doesn't think I recognize him, and he gestures quickly towards his chest and the restaurant. I assure him that I know who he is, and we have a short conversation in French 101. He's solicitous and warm, and encourages me to use the informal construction of verbs. I'm excited when I get out "Le meilleur Croque Monsieur du ville!" smoothly, though I've no idea if I've strung it together correctly. He tells me his name, and says "Enchantee!" as we part.

Lunchable Elevator

Greg texts around 2 am on Thursday night/Friday morning to say Someone broke the elevators. I sleep through it, and don't respond until after noon the next day:

Are you ok? Do you need me to call the fire department? I can drop a Lunchable down the elevator shaft... He lets me know he's back upstairs, but he's hungry. Would I maybe just grab the string he's dangling down the shaft and tie the Lunchable to that?

Yeah, I say. Do you want ham and crackers or tapioca and sliced apples?

Tapiocapples for sure, he responds. I inquire about the elevator problem. Did they just not work? Did you have to take the **shudder** stairs? He did. How many breaks did you have to take? I ask. Did you have a camelback?

He asks if he can buy me a cup of coffee, and I tell him I would, but I'm in the middle of something. He writes back: Is it a clever text?

I'm shaving callouses, I say. It's heavy labor.

A little pedegg action? he replies.

I'm floored. You know about the ped egg? HAVE WOMEN NO SECRETS ANYMORE??

A bit later he texts again. Coffee break in a bit maybe? We agree to meet in half an hour. I grab keys, the dog leash, and my phone, and Chaucer and I head out for a quick walk beforehand. It's pretty and sunny, and I snap a couple of pics. We get to the coffee shop before him, so together Chaucer and I watch him leave our building and cross the intersection. (The coffee shop is about a hundred steps from our front door).

Chauc nearly pees himself with excitement when he gets to the table. Greg rubs his head and coos at him. He pulls Chaucer's velvety ears, and nuzzles his jowls, letting the dog lick his cheek. "Jesus, Chauc," I say. "Have a little self-respect. There are tiny hearts floating out of your eyes right now." While he's inside getting us Arnold Palmers, a Neo Mastiff puppy stops by for a visit. After puppy and owner leave, we sip our drinks and talk about the various, familiar homeless people of downtown. We know some of them by name, as well as what to expect from them: this one always wants to talk about Chaucer, that one just wants enough money for smokes.

There's one guy known as Ricky the Pirate, and I've heard it said that he has his own Facebook fan page. Or maybe it's MySpace, I'm not sure. One man we see around is wildly unpredictable and prone to sudden outbursts. Today he's taken a chair a few feet down from us. He's muttering loudly and at one point, throws his cup violently to the ground. It splashes the sidewalk and a pair of pedestrians. Greg looks at me with an eyebrow raised: Should we go? But the man's fit passes, and he walks away, calm again.

Our table outside is next to a window, so patrons inside occasionally point and smile at Chaucer from inside. One young woman and her friend laugh as I allow Chaucer to chew on my straw. They look from the dog to Greg and back again. They mostly look at Greg. I roll my eyes and he laughs. He's not cocky or arrogant, but there's no doubt he's comfortable being a good looking young man. He told me once he loves meeting women. I told him it was scary how similar we are. It's suddenly chilly, so we leave. We get our mail together, and he gets off on my floor, excitedly opening a manilla envelope. Inside are printable sheets of aluminum that he's been anxious to experiment with. Last week it was glue trials. He walks me to my door, where he gives me a quick, friendly peck goodbye. I'm satisfied that we've successfully reclassified ourselves as friends. I set my alarm for seven, and fall asleep. I wake up at four am, twelve hours later. I've slept through an entire night of work. A Friday night. A night I needed, badly. I feel nauseous, I'm so furious with myself. The sleeping problems I've been having have gotten out of hand. I know exactly what I need to do—just stay the fuck awake during the hours I need to be awake and sleep when I should be sleeping—but I'm failing at this seemingly simple task. I try to forgive myself, focus on the things I am getting right, and start my day optimistic and determined to do better.

Pilot Light

When Greg texts, asking if he can come by, my place is still a mess from the night before. A last minute invitation to an Oscar-watching party had me scrambling to pick out a dress. Virtually every one I own has been pulled out of my closet, draped across the couch or my desk, or hung in the window.

The party itself hadn't been anything spectacular, but that was mostly because I tagged along with Cameron. I barely knew anyone there, and wasn't feeling especially mingly. I hung back with familiar faces and did my part to deplete the catering table of ahi tuna and sea-salted chocolate chip cookies. The hosts had gone all out decorating, complete with a red-carpet entryway outside their apartment door, and a blow-up Oscar for photo ops.

After the party, Cameron and I had gone to Faultline, though we did even less mingling there. We planted ourselves at the bar and talked for hours, the bartender occasionally buying us shots and joining in the conversation. He clearly had his sights set on my friend. I wasn't in the mood to drink heavily, but had felt it my duty as Wingwoman in Chief to partake.

I'm still feeling the lingering effects of my good sportsmanship when Greg knocks and lets himself in, a heavy glass jug with a narrow neck in his arms. Inside is a plump goldfish named Roscoe. I'm going to be fish sitting for the next five days while he's out of town. Greg puts the jug on my kitchen island, carefully positioning it like a centerpiece. He comments on the spread of formal wear and shoes around my apartment. Though I explain that the mess was occasioned by a party with friends, he teases me, insisting I've been on a date. He takes a seat on my couch, and I sit opposite him on the edge of my bed. We chat about his pending trip, about his work.

After a minute, I stand and return to the business of tidying up. He lays down lengthwise, twisting his body to face me, and extends his arms in a wordless invitation: come. This is a direct, blatant regression of our reclassification efforts and we both know it. But he's an appealing sight, stretched out on the sofa. I can't resist the temptation to be held, so I only hesitate for a moment before laying down with him. And that's when it happens. It's something in the kiss he gives me, gentle and soft. Reserved, even, as if to acknowledge that this is an anomaly in our new paradigm. As if reading my mind, he confirms this verbally. "I know we're just friends. But I like kissing you." But whereas before when he'd kiss me, I'd feel myself floating away mentally, detached and frankly, uninterested in the physical experience of it, at this moment, I am very much present. My senses are fully registering, and I am dialed in. What got shut off so forcefully late last year, at the hands of another man, is suddenly back on again. It is unexpected and wonderful and intoxicating. I can't explain why it's happening, but I don't care.

He feels and hears my response, and pulls us upright on the couch. After a few minutes like this, he stands, still holding me wrapped around his torso. He yanks the curtain sheers closed and we tumble onto my bed. For some reason, I'm acutely aware of colors: the white of both our shirts, of my sheets, and of the afternoon light filtering through the soft cotton drapes. The blue of our jeans, which are almost the exact same dye of denim. The red of his lips and the deep gold of his eyes. He knows and understand the significance of my reaction. He recognizes that I'm suddenly miles apart from where I was just a week or so ago. He's solicitous and encouraging, whispering in my ear how sexy I am, and how pretty. In the midst of the passion, my brain takes a moment to pause for gratitude to him. He's refusing to let me worry about his side of things, and insisting that we completely focus on me. It feels like a gift. It has everything to do with him. It has nothing to do with him. What he's passing on to me, I'll take back for myself and use again, without him. We both know it. And that's ok, and understood. It's a beautiful thing.

I won't let things go far. I keep the original boundary I've established in place. But the twenty minutes we steal, before he leaves to pack for his flight, is dreamlike. He holds me, grinning with a mixture of genuine happiness for me and some undeniable satisfaction at his part in the process. "I feel like a shell has broken off of me," I say. "There's a warmth and a glow deep inside of me that I haven't felt in so long. It's like, I don't know...the pilot light got lit again." He tells me that I'm a spectacular person, and that I deserve all good things. He goes soon afterward, assuring me that Roscoe will be fine without a water change.

After I watch him turn the corner of my hall, I return to lounging in my bed, luxuriating in my senses. I feel, once again, like a whole human being. A bit later, he texts to ask if he can stop by again, before he leaves for the airport. He pops in the door to quickly hand me a small plastic container on which he's written in Sharpie: Puddin Pie - **Homemade** "I got the urge to make pie crust last night," he explains. "It crumbled and broke, so I made pudding pie. Chocolate. It's good." He kisses me and turns to go. I call down the hall after him, wishing him a good flight. I make a request for beach pictures from Florida. "Every grain of sand," he promises.

Once he's gone, I rummage in the closet for my Nikes. For the first time in weeks, I feel like running.

unexpected

Thursday morning, Greg texts to see if I want to grab breakfast. I'm still sleeping off the night before so I miss his message. When I wake up in the early afternoon, I bounce the invitation back, and we agree on Starbucks in fifteen minutes. I get there first, and watch him approach. We see one another and he smiles from across the street. While he's waiting for the light to change, a huge bus passes between us; when the street clears, he's nowhere to be seen. I frown, looking around. Where the hell did he go? Then I see him, popping his head out from behind a wall on the other side of the road. He's a twenty-seven year old man, playing hide-and-go-seek on a busy downtown street corner.

We have coffee and talk. It's casual, friendly, relaxed. We've been reclassified, despite lapses. I'm confident of this. I'm happy to be his friend, because I have truly grown to adore this charming young man, for all his playfulness, his wit, and his warmth. It doesn't hurt that he's so handsome, either. It's undeniably fun, and no small ego boost, to be seen with him in public. A friend of his joins our table outside; they have plans to work together on a project, so I get up to leave them to it. As I'm going, Greg asks if I want to get a bite later. I tell him I've got plans. "Art Walk," I say simply, not elaborating. I've got a date, but I don't feel like telling him. Firmly in the friends camp as we are, I know him well enough to know it might sting a little bit. We're detached, but attached. We're casual, but we care. We've been skirting dangerous territory for months, and I'm about to change everything, by seeing someone else. I'm well within my rights - we are, after all, just friends/neighbors with (some) benefits. I'm just not ready to tell him yet.

Later, my date comes over. I cook. We eat. We drink. We joke and talk and kiss a little. We're having a great time. We head out for Art Walk. We wander, we browse, we stop for drinks at Bar 107. We start to get drunk. We kiss some more. We wander some more. We go to The Association, and nestle into a couch towards the back. We drink and talk and flirt, intensely. The place is packed, the music is great, and we're having a lot of fun. I go the bar to get us a round. On my way back, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's Greg. He's grinning as usual, clearly delighted to see me, and ready to hang out. I realize he's come here knowing it's my favorite downtown bar, and that the chances of my being here tonight are great. He has no idea I'm on a date. That is, until he takes in my surprised and slightly anxious expression, and glances downward at the two drinks in my hands. His face falls immediately.

"You're on a date, aren't you?" I don't know what to say. I'm drunk, and don't trust myself to speak. I just nod. I know my face says everything: I'm sorry. I should have told you. Please don't be upset. We're cool, right? We're just friends, right? You knew this was coming, right...?

He straightens up, giving me a look I read as one part sorrowful and one part anger. "I'm out of here," he says. He turns and moves away, disappearing quickly into the throng. I'm bothered, but too drunk and preoccupied with the good time I'm having on my date to feel much more than a medium-sized pang of regret. It's awkward, yes, and a little bit painful. We have, after all, had some really good times over the past few months...but it was never going anywhere. It was just fun. We'll talk about it. It'll be ok. These are all the fragmented half-thoughts that are in my head as my date and I continue our evening.

We leave, briefly hitting Spring Street before starting back towards my place. We're both happily tipsy, arms linked, laughing and enjoying one another's company. Suddenly, I realize I'm looking at Sydney, Greg’s dog, approaching us on the sidewalk. My eyes lift from leash to master: it's too late for either of us to turn away or pretend this isn't happening. Holy hell. What are the chances we'd run into one another twice on the same night. Jesus. A small, awkward, slightly ugly scene ensues: Greg turns his body as we move past, walking backwards, eyes on me intently. He raises his arms in a questioning gesture, and says incredulously, "Really? This guy?" I cringe. I'm embarrassed for all three of us. I know Greg is lashing out because he's drunk. But I know there's some real pain there, too. I'm stammering an apology to my date, who's not exactly sure what just happened, when my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, see it's Greg, and stupidly decide to answer. I don't remember what was said. Twenty seconds worth of me trying to placate my friend (my friend, right?), but also trying to enforce boundaries. I'm sympathetic but firm.

I hang up. The texting starts. I'm exceedingly jealous, he writes. I don't reply. I'm busy trying to pick my way through an explanation to my date, of who this person is and what this drama is about. He's sporting and generous and doesn't seem overly perturbed. We've been having too great a time together for him to feel threatened. When we get back to my place, I shut my phone off. So I'm unaware of the texts that continue to come. And I'm unaware of the email that will arrive early the next morning. And I'm certainly, at this point, utterly unaware of what the next four days are going to bring: a completely unexpected flood of emotion that will shake up the lives of two men and one woman. And that is still shaking them up, even as I write the first part of these belated, catch-up posts. I'm unaware of anything other than my date, whom I allow to spend the night with me - something I'd never once allowed Greg to do.

halfway in love

Friday morning, my date and I wake up together. We've had a really nice night and I just really enjoy his company. His energy is positive, calming, confident. There is something very sure - and reassuring - about this man, and I like it a lot. I've nothing breakfast-worthy in my fridge, so we walk across the street for a coffee. We briefly discuss the drama of the night before. I'm still surprised by Greg’s behavior, and still unsure how to address it. We're sitting there talking amicably, still getting to know one another, when I glance toward my building. Greg is walking out the front door, his notebook in hand. It's obvious where he's headed: the very cafe where we're sitting.

Holy fucking shit, I think. Are you kidding me?? I'm about to have my third unexpected encounter with him in twelve hours; my date, his second. I don't know whether to warn my date, to brace him for impact or not. But I don't have to, because it's mere seconds before Greg is upon us. The awkwardness is palpable in the hot morning air. Nobody knows what to say, or how to act. Greg gives a perfunctory nod, then disappears inside. I cannot believe the bad luck. My date and I laugh nervously and sip our drinks. I'm trying to seem neutral, unaffected, but the truth is, I'm feeling for Greg. I know he's probably seething at the fact that my date stayed the night, a privilege he was never allowed, and a sore spot between us. A minute later, he reemerges from Starbucks, and walks straight to our table. He puts his hand out to my date. He looks him squarely in the eye, and apologizes. "Hey man," he says. "I just want to apologize for my behavior last night. I know I was a little rough. No excuses, I wasn't a gentleman, and I'm sorry."

There's a brief exchange of testosterone and ego, the depths of which I can only guess at. It's expressed in the nuances of handshake, of eye contact - the man-to-man communique I can witness but will never fully understand. Greg directs his energy to my date, barely acknowledging me. Then he's gone as quickly as he's come. I have no idea what to think about any of this. My date leaves soon after. I walk him to his car a street away. Back on my block, I come upon Greg, who's loading his car in front of our building. At this point, it's comical how many times we've run into another in the past half day. But he doesn't laugh. He slams his car door, walking up to me quickly, and then immediately stepping back, agitated and incredulous. He runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head. He looks at me wildly.

"Why is it that I never run into you except the one day you're the last person I want to see?" I'm quiet, standing helplessly on the sidewalk. I know we need to talk, but I'm not sure where to start. What's to be said? And why is he this upset? "You let him stay the night?" He looks at me, wounded. "We've been hanging out for months, and you never let me sleep over."

I say his name, pleadingly. "We didn't want anything serious, remember? We talked about it. You didn't want anything. Neither did I. Where is this coming from?"

"Will you go for a drive with me?" he asks. "Please? I really want to talk to you." He's pacing. I've never seen him wound up like this. "I haven't slept all night."

I take stock of myself: I have no makeup on. I haven't brushed my hair. I'm not even wearing a bra. "Of course," I say. We get in the car and head west on Wilshire. He's driving fast, glancing over at me every few seconds. "I didn't sleep," he says. "I woke up every hour to check my phone, to see if you'd texted back. Did you get my email?" I tell him I haven't looked at my phone yet today. He looks directly at me. Again, I ask him to explain where this is coming from. A little bit of jealousy, ok, sure, that I can understand, but...

"Look, Ellie," he says. "I'm halfway in love with you..." He's still talking, but my brain has tripped on these words. He's completely sober. He's had the night to cool off, to gain some perspective on all of this. He can't be serious, but he is. He goes on to say that seeing me with another man was intolerable to him. That it made him realize what I mean to him. That all along he's known it, but maybe it's about time he showed me. That the thought of losing me kept him up all night. He tells me to read his email, which I do. It's an apology for "attempting to chase off" my "beau", but only because he "sometimes thinks I'm the Ellie for him". It ends with him begging me to call ASAP. It's signed, XO, Valentine.

I'm stunned. I did not expect this. At all. The next few hours are a blur. We stop at a camera supply store. He takes me to lunch, a delicatessen where we split a corned beef sandwich. When the food arrives, he moves to sit beside me in the booth. He spreads mustard on my half without my asking. We talk and talk and talk. He's intensely, insistently affectionate, putting his arm around me, kissing my cheek and forehead, gazing deeply at me. I allow all of this to happen, in spite of the fact that I've just sent my date home mere hours ago. I am too bewildered and busy processing to protest. My brain is on overtime; I've pulled out the file marked Greg, the one I'd handily filed away, knowing exactly what was in it and where it went - and now I've got it spread open before me. I have to reexamine its contents completely. I have no idea where it goes anymore. I have no idea where I want it to go. After we eat, we pay at the cashier stand. I make an offhand comment about wishing we'd saved some bread, to feed the ducks we'd been watching through the window, at the lake across the street.

"Could I maybe get a couple pieces of bread, to go?" he asks the cashier. I object, telling him not to be silly. He ignores me. The cashier tells him it will be two dollars for the bread. He asks her whether he can't just add a little extra to the tip line, to call it a day, rather than run his debit card again. She says something about that money going to the server. Unfazed, he says, "Ok, no problem. Just charge it then." He hands his card back to her. "We have a five dollar minimum on debit cards, sir." He doesn't even blink. "Wonderful. Can I please get five dollars worth of bread?" He smiles brightly at her, while I'm dying behind him.

We leave with a small bag containing five slices of bread and a cookie. We feed ducks, ducking and dodging the sea gulls who swarm us from above. He takes a picture of me, into which he'll later photoshop an eagle, mixed in with the various other birds hovering around us. As we're walking out of the park, he puts out his hand, silently gesturing for me to pass back to him the wrapped cookie he'd given me moments earlier. He trots a few yards over to a homeless person laying on the grass. I can't hear the words exchanged, but she lights up and happily accepts the cookie he hands to her.

Back at our building, he asks me to come up and listen to records (actual records) while he works. I oblige, though he doesn't do any work. He just plays music, and sits close to me on an overstuffed chair. At some point, he takes his guitar off the wall, and plays for me. He kisses me, and I allow it, hating myself for playing the lava game at warp fucking speed, but feeling powerless to stop.

I know that I need to get some air, some time alone to digest all of this. That I'm going to have to cut ALL of this off - the date and Greg - until I figure out what the fuck I want. That this is borderline disgusting behavior on my part, and it needs to stop, immediately. In my defense, I'm reeling with mixed, confusing emotions. I'm flattered. I'm intrigued. I'm excited. I'm unsure. I'm scared. I question what's going on, both silently and aloud: he's honest and vulnerable, in response. He doesn't have all the answers. He isn't sure about where he wants it to go, or how far. He just knows he wants to give it a shot, a real shot. My mind is split into two warring factions, one side urging me to go for it, because he truly is an amazing person. The other half is holding back, hung up on two major concerns: 1) My date - whom I really like. Really. And 2) the question of, how much could I really want this, anyway, if how casual it's been has never bothered me before? Eventually, I tear myself away from this confusing, overwhelming space. It's Friday night, and I have to get ready for work.

Tragically flawed

When I wake up, I read a text from Greg. It's a copy of the picture he took at the lake on the previous Friday, the one of me feeding ducks into which he'd photoshopped an eagle. I love this, he's sent with it.

I reply: That picture is awful.

He writes back: I like it. It proves that you're not a vampire.

It proves that I'm not pretty, is what it proves, I answer. I tell him that I did well at work the night before, and am going to go pay off my bike.

Want a lift? he asks. I explain that the bike shop is just a few blocks away on Broadway. Want a cohort? he amends. I accept the offer, and a few minutes later, he knocks on my door.

On the walk over, we rehash where things stand with us. I am strongly leaning towards not wanting to get further involved with him. In fact, I am nearly sure of it. I've agonized over the decision to tell him as much, because I can't seem to get my ass off the fence. And he knows it. He acknowledges my reticence, all the while gently reaffirming his own undiminished interest. I tell him that I've grown to adore him so much, to treasure his company and companionship and all of our fun times so dearly, that I'm terrified of what dating would do to our already great relationship. I know he's substantially younger (9 years), and that pretty much guarantees us an expiration date. I know at some point, he'll want someone closer to his age. Someone younger. And I have a feeling if (when!) it ends after getting truly romantically involved, it will end terribly. There'll just be too much pain. We'll have gotten too close, and our friendship won't survive. At this point, I tell him, I value our friendship way, way too much to risk losing it.

I don't tell him that I am also distracted by thoughts of someone else - the person he'd met, and who had sent him into a 12 hour tailspin the week before. I keep that variable out of the equation. And I don't say that this person, during the two dates I'd had with him, has drawn a strong reaction from me, physically. One that's been on my mind, and interfering with my ability to see things clearly.

He argues that we're nearly perfect for one another. That he doesn't care about my age, or that I dance. That everything lines up for us, that we get along like peas in a pod, that we're attracted to one another, get one another's senses of humor, that we have mutual interests. That he thinks we can retain a friendship if it doesn't work out. He wants to try, anyway. When we get to the bike shop, I realize I don't have quite enough to pay the layaway balance, unless I want to nearly clean out my checking account. I tell the guy helping me that I'll be back with the final $90 tomorrow.

Greg steps forward. "If she pays the balance now, can she take it home today?" The shopkeeper and I speak at the same time, him saying "yes" and me saying "no." I know where Greg is going with this, and shake my head firmly. Ignoring me, he takes out his debit card and hands it to the cashier. "Don't accept that," I say sharply. "Seriously." Greg smiles at me. "Come on, you were so excited to get your bike. Just pay me back tomorrow." We go a few rounds of me refusing and him insisting before I acquiesce, on the condition that he lets me pay him back (he doesn't, justifying the gift by explaining that he's made an unexpected repeat sale of one of his paintings).

Greg asks whether I have a helmet, and I laugh. "No way," I say. "I can ride a bike just fine." I look to the shopkeeper for support. "If you're over eighteen, you don't legally have to. But if you're going to be riding at night or in heavy traffic, I definitely recommend it." Greg looks at me pointedly. He knows I'd be doing both. "Uh uh." I shake my head. "I'll be fine." While we wait for them to customize my bike (I've had them add brakes to the front handlebars), we goof around in the shop. He takes a video, making me pose on a tiny kid's bike while he mock-interviews me about my big purchase. He teases me about how excited I am, but he's obviously getting a good deal of vicarious joy out of the experience. He's playful and affectionate, and pulls me to him to kiss my forehead and dance with me. His attention feels good. It always does: like wrapping myself up in a warm, familiar sweater. At one point, he brings me into his arms and playfully sways with me. It's the middle of the day, and we're standing in the middle of a bike shop, in the middle of downtown LA. He tells me if I don't let him take me on a date, a real date, that he's going to have to move away to escape me.

"Don't you dare," I whisper up at him. He leans close to my ear and sings: "I'm leaving, on a jet plane...don't know when I'll be back again..."

"Stop it," I say, punching his arm. He doesn't let go of me.

We've been waiting for some time, and Greg has a dinner date with his mom in a couple of hours. I tell him to go ahead, that I'll wait alone. He refuses. Another half hour passes. At this point, he's almost certainly going to be late to pick up his mother, but he won't leave. He tells me to wait at the front of the shop, and he'll go check on things in back, to see if he can't speed up the process. "You're going to have to come back for repairs and stuff, so I'll be the bad guy," he says. As he steps away, he turns and says conspiratorially, "I'll get you something free. Like a helmet."

He walks back to the service area, and I watch him conferring with the mechanic and shop manager. A few moments later, he waves me over. The shop manager gestures to a table nearby, piled with various helmets. "Let's get you a helmet," the manager says. "What's your favorite color?" I look at Greg, who's smiling, clearly pleased with himself. I won't find out until a couple days later that he's actually had to pay for the helmet.

The bike is ready a few minutes later, and we walk it home together. When we stop at Pershing Square to let the dog pee, he takes photos of me wheeling around on the pavement. My favorite part of the bike is the contrasting white tape I've had them put on the handlebars. I've mentioned it repeatedly to him, and now he teases me by making a point to comment on how cool it looks. I feel twelve and giddy, and he tells me how nice it is that I'm so excited and grateful. Later, he texts me a picture of himself just before he leaves for dinner. He's standing in the mirror, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and looking absurdly handsome - with his middle finger raised to the camera. What's with you and putting birds in all your pictures? I ask.

2 pts for you, he says, In the game of Ellie v. Greg. At work that night, I receive a text asking me if I want to come cuddle after I'm off. Something about it makes me feel panicky. I start to feel extremely anxious about where things are with him. I'm afraid they're spiraling out of my control, and I'm going to end up losing his friendship, if we don't set some boundaries once and for all. I text back, saying as much. I'm offering you my friendship, I say. I hope more than anything you'll accept it.

He doesn't give up. We smile, laugh, and generally adore each other to bits. We're excessively attracted to one another and somewhat mutually in love. The second I stop being all over you, you're gonna come and tell me you've been thinking about me and you might've been wrong again, he wrote. Tragically flawed we are.

What would dating change? I ask, not sure what point I'm trying to make.

I'd wear your jacket, he says.

I need to think, I tell him.

I need to drink, he says back.

Plot twist

When I get home from work on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I am emotionally trashed. The texting I've done with Greg that night - and in fact, having spent the day with him - has me completely twisted. One minute, I look at all the amazing qualities he has as a person and that we have, together, and I feel like I'd be crazy not to date him. The next, I feel weirdly like I'm trying to talk myself into it. I'm scared of how bad it will hurt to lose him, when he's inevitably ready to move on from me.

Greg is too lovable, and our paths parallel in so many ways, that I know I can get really, really attached to him if I let myself. I know that if I start regularly sleeping with Upstairs while dating him, I'll fall in love with him. That's unquestionable. Then I'll really be fucked when it ends. I write Greg an email that says, basically, "Friends. That's my final answer. That's what I want: your friendship. Platonic. Please give it to me, because I don't want to lose you."

I can't sleep after I write it. I feel sick and unsure. I second guess myself. He writes back in the early morning. There's anger. Disappointment. He calls me out, fairly, on my many mixed signals. There is also kindness and generosity and understanding and respect. And a promise that I'll always have his friendship, but that maybe it's time we had a little space from one another. I am relieved, saddened, disappointed, and angry at myself - all sorts of messy, confusing emotions. Then, the plot twist comes. My date from the other day texts. He says he's having second thoughts about seeing me again, and about getting further involved (I haven't seen or spoken with him in a week). He says he's scared of getting hurt, and that he isn't sure I'm the right thing for him. In a nutshell, he dumps me. I'm surprised and disappointed, and my ego develops a big, ugly blue bruise. But then I realize how utterly ridiculous I am for feeling surprise. I should have seen this coming, one, and two, I fully deserve it, for having just cold put him on hold while I waffled. After the drama he was a party to, who'd blame him? I sit in the bathtub, stunned not at the fact that I've been dropped, but at the fact of how stupidly chaotic and drama-filled my life has become, in the course of a week. I'm thirty-six years old, I think. What the fuck. I'd been planning to go to work that night, to fully immerse myself in profitable distraction until the whole mess was a few days behind me, but when Cameron texts, wanting to go out, I jump at that plan instead.

An hour later I'm dressed to maim and on the train; we go to Akbar in Silver Lake. We take ecstasy. We dance to 80s deep cuts. We have an amazing, randomness-filled talk about life. We shut the bar down, catch a taxi home, and have food delivered: a huge serving of chili cheese fries. They come with a side of potato chips, and I actually use the chips to scoop up the fries. My name is Ellie, and I get by with a little help from my friends, their drugs, good music, and carbohydrates.

As simple as choosing

On Friday, I get an email from Greg, telling me he'd like to go for a walk today, to settle things mano a mano. Before I have a chance to reply, I run into him in the elevator. We both have our dogs, so we take them down to the street together. We walk in silence for a minute before he speaks. He tells me he understands everything I've been saying for the past eight days. That he hates the idea of making me uncomfortable with his overtures. He stops on the sidewalk and looks at me, and I catch my breath, to see how pained and sincere and open and vulnerable his expression is.

"But in spite of everything, I'd still date you if--"

"Then let's do it," I hear myself saying.

The air around us seems to freezes for a split second, while I brace myself for his reaction. It feels like hours. He stares at me, incredulous. If I'd been a third party, I would have looked at me the same way. I feel incredulous. Before replying with actual words, he makes a noise that seems to be equal parts disbelief, annoyance, amusement, and delight. I try to compose myself; I feel like crying. I suddenly want him, and badly so. I feel like I've just jumped off a bridge, tethered only by a rope around my ankle - the other end of which is tied around his waist. Everything he's been telling me since last week has led me to believe that I'll be safe if I take this leap - but I still feel terrified, for both of us. I am in no way sure he knows how fast and heavily I can fall. I am in no way sure he'll be able to keep us both alive. But I've gone and made the call to test us both. I've said the words, and there's no going back. The waffling is over. I know what makes me say it, and I know what doesn't.

I say it because in that moment, I realize how incredible - how miraculous - it is, that after all the hot-cold hoops I've put him through, here he is, still ready to take a chance with me. He's fearless, I realize. Fucking fearless. In that moment, there on the sidewalk, I realize what an incredibly beautiful thing his fearlessness is. How rare and precious it is. It kind of makes me fall instantly in love with him a little bit. Just the littlest bit. It kind of makes me see him in a way I never have before. I realize, suddenly, that I can choose to love him, if I want to. Or at least choose to see if I will. I've nearly rationalized this person out of my life because I've been afraid of what loving him could do to me down the line. But it's as simple as choosing to see it differently: to see the things that are already there (the friendship, fun, laughter), and the things that can be there. I don't say it because this hasn't worked out. I know how much it might seem like that, to someone reading this story in serial installments. But it isn't about that. That's the furthest thing from my mind. It's 100% about Greg himself, and about seeing, finally, how much he's brought to my life - about recognizing that those things could be just the tip of the iceberg. That I'd be a fucking fool to at least not give it a shot. Never regret the things you do in life. Only the things you don't do.

I know I don't need him in my life. I can be perfectly okay on my own. I know that without question. I was prepared to be single, for all intents and purposes, for a good long time, until some of the bigger puzzle pieces in my life fall into place. But Greg brings something really special to my life. He isn't a need, nor am I for him. But we give one another joy. Why wouldn't we want more of it? The next twenty minutes, walking around the block, are a blur. He seems surprised, skeptical, wary, excited, hopeful, happy. He tells me I'm crazy. He tells me he doesn't know what to think, or what to believe. I tell him I completely understood, and don't blame him one bit. But that if his offer still stands, all I'm asking for is one date - one official date, finally. He can't stop smiling, or looking at me. We're giggling. He takes my hand. He puts his arm around me. He tells me we'll have to take things slow, that we'll have to go on one date and see what happens. He says he's scared. I say I am, too.

-—

That night, we text up a frenzy. We make plans to hang out at the St. Patrick's Day block party the next day, held directly in front of our building. We text-banter nonstop in the hours before I leave for work.

Please please please just stay my friend, he says. I don't wanna lose this. No one else gets my jokes.

I write back: Friends first and above all. Pinky swear.

Ellie, I'm in, he says, and my heart soars a little bit.

We have a poetry slam, while I'm on the train to work: (me) Riding the blue line Someone sits too close; I move Green beer tomorrow (him) He receives a text The phone lights up; so does he Sydney scoffs and turns. (me) A guantlet is thrown Fuck, what rhymes with [his real name]? Dirty limericks rule. (him) Challenge accepted: We pronounce words differently. I say limerick

---

We speak again briefly, after I get home from work. Plans to meet up the next day, while we both are out with our friends. I'm excited about seeing Hollywood U2 again, about watching the concert with him. I tell him he'll find me by looking for the girl wearing yellow + blue instead of green. He tells me to Google "snowclone", a cool word he's just learned. We say goodnight, and the thoughts I have of him as I go to sleep are different than others I've ever had. It's as if he's completely new to me.

I can't wait to see him the next day.

Away team

Greg texts from Mas Malo, wanting to know if I'd like him to bring me back some chocolate flan. I tell him no thanks, that I'm not a fan of the flan. Neither is he. I'm a creme brulee guy, he says. Then, I adore you.

I respond: Just don't dessert me.

A few minutes later, he sends me a picture: a worm floating in a glass of amber liquid. Good idea or bad idea? he asks. I tell him I hear they flourish in the small intestines of nice Jewish boys. Flourish and multiply, I add.

You're just afraid that I'll get drunk and harass you, he says. Which I will. Then in a bit: Can I come over for a minute? I have a tequila worm and we're gonna do this together. Once here, he tries to convince me to split the worm with him. I refuse. Instead, we cut it and offer half to Chaucer, who wants nothing to do with it.

We mess around for a couple of hours, talking and listening to Washed Out. I slip my bare feet into his sheepskin slippers, clomping around and doing an exaggerated impression of him. I threaten to march over and knock on my neighbor's down the hall, and when I step halfway out my door, he pushes me the rest of the way out and locks it behind me. I'm wearing nothing but underwear and men's slippers. I rap on my door quietly, frantically whispering a demand for admittance. He cracks it slightly, then whistles loudly into the hallway to draw the attention of my neighbors.

When I announce that I'm hungry, he says, "That's my favorite thing to hear you say." I raise an eyebrow; I'm pretty sure there are things he prefers more. He laughs and explains, "No really. I'm terrible at taking care of myself, but I really love taking care of other people. I love feeding you." But I demur. He's spent a small fortune on food, drinks, and entertainment for me; until I can even the score a little bit, I'm determined to provide my own victuals.

He has some work to do, and wants me to come upstairs and keep him company while he does it. But there are some things I want to do around home, plus I'm feeling extremely worn out already: we stayed up until four am the night before, talking and showing one another our favorite YouTube videos. He attempts bribery: he'll order food for me; he'll put on Rear Window; I can bring my laptop and work alongside him.

At this last, I look at him. "Really? You wouldn't mind if I was just working on my computer while you painted?"

"I'd love it," he says. But I pass, lying to myself that I'm still going to vacuum and mop. That I'm going to organize my iPhoto albums, which have gotten out of hand. That I'm going to go for a run. He offers to come back down after he's done with his work, to sleep at my place and be "the away team". He knows I have difficulty sleeping outside of my own bed. "That way you can kick me out whenever, if you still can't sleep. You won't have to get up and leave." But I regretfully decline this offer, too. I'm just too exhausted, and facing down four consecutive nights of work starting tomorrow.

He leaves, but returns a few minutes later with food for me: two varieties of Udon soup from his pantry, and a bottled iced tea from his fridge. I shake my head in wonder, but he shrugs it off. He sits on the arm of my couch, and I stand between his legs. We're lingering, procrastinating the work we both need to be doing. He wraps his arms around me and makes up a silly, nonsensical story about the two of us and a bowl of Udon soup. When he leaves, I try and fail at writing anything of substance. I'm just unable to connect any creative dots. I'm feeling low and down on myself; job hunting is going poorly. Plus, I'm not feeling remotely ready to go back to work tomorrow, and dread the next four days.

smitten

I wait until I know he's out for a few hours, then I grab the two down pillows I've bought in the fabric district, a tape dispenser, and the three page invitation I've drawn. I take the stairs up to his apartment, just in case, so I don't bump into him. I prop the pillows in the corner by his door, and tape the pages to the wall.

You are invited to be my partner in feathery violence on International Pillow Fight Day, Saturday, April 7.

Itinerary as follows:

1pm - pillow decorating session (markers will be provided).

1:30pm - caloric fortification (known to some as "lunch").

2pm - journey to battle field.

3pm - THE BATTLE BEGINS (and lo, destruction was wrought, verily).

Please RSVP.

The response choices I gave:

Yes! I'm in! And I seriously can't think of a more fabulous way to spend a Saturday.

Regrets! The first Saturday of every month is reserved for ball-shaving and I missed last month, so the situation is DIRE.

Other (please indicate).

An hour later, he texts. You're the funnest girl ever invented. He comes down for a bit, and we talk and listen to music. I'm feeling a bit stressed about being unproductive, so I pull a Classic Ellie and displace some of my anxiety on to him. He calls me on it. It's your responsibility to take care of your own shit. Don't sleep all day. Get up and do what you need to do. I feel ridiculous. I'm supposed to be the more mature one. Are you sure you have room in your life for this? It takes a lot of energy to be in a relationship, to care about someone else and their feelings. I absolutely do, and tell him as much, but there's still some tension between us. He's internalizing the crap I've just dumped on him, and I hate myself for it.

When he gets up to go, I stand on the bed and wrap my arms around him. I make him repeat after me. My girlfriend is perfect for me....My girlfriend sometimes gets behind on sleep and gets cranky and starts saying stupid shit... I don't let him leave until he's smiling again.

When he turns at the edge of my hall to wave bye, I run and slide to him, sock-footed. He catches me and scoops me up. I wrap my legs around his waist and he pins me to the wall. His eyes break my heart, they're so full and sweet. He buries his face in my hair and says "I'm in love with you," then tells me to say it back. I say it softly first, then louder. Then I throw my head back and yell it, using his full name. "I'm in love with you, Gregory Brett Auerbach!!!"

He goes to work out, and I head out for a run. He texts when he leaves the gym. You're crazy. And lovely. Yelling in the hallway made me blush. And now I'm smiling about it. He stops by later, on his way to dinner with a friend, as I'm getting ready for work. While I chat up his friend, he stands close to me, his hand on my hip. As they're leaving, he leans in and in a low voice against my cheek, tells me again that he loves me. I cannot get enough - of the words, of the way he always puts his mouth close to my ear say them. The best secret never kept.

At work, I receive this: Sorry for getting a little touchy before, you're my favorite person/activity/cohort and I really love that/lover/provacateur/evacateur/promiscumistress/BFF/sex kitten/neighbor/cookmate. I read it several times, my eyes circling back to the BFF bit again and again.

Your sign is the best thing ever created on paper, he says.

I'm pretty sure Martin Luther scooped me with his proclamations, I reply.

He tells me he'd love to see me before I go to bed, when I'm done with work. Your creativity is so sexy, he adds.

When I get home, I go straight to his place, sweaty and flushed from my twenty minute bike ride. He's left the door open, so I let myself in. He's sitting at his new workstation, atop a bar stool under the Edison lights he's just hung. His laptop is open in front of him; I can see he's working in Illustrator. While I lounge in an overstuffed chair and regale him with work anecdotes, he finishes up his project. It's for me - his reply to my pillow fight invitation.

All the while he's working, printing, writing, spray-painting (all out of my view), he tells me how much he loves this, what we're doing - the creative, artistic, silly, playful exchange. I don't know how to tell him how one in a million he is, that he feels this way. I don't know how to tell him that guys don't do this stuff, and it means the world to me, too. Finally, he's done, and he presents his work to me. I'm speechless. He's designed, written, printed, and mounted a multi-media RSVP, complete with gold-leaf feathers on it. It's ridiculous and beautiful and over the top in the best possible way. He's checked boxes that say Hell Yeah! and Other!, and written I'd love to. I've become smitten, enamored, and generally taken aback in the loveliest of ways by the loveliest of girls, Elizabeth Baker. If she goes, I will most certainly be in attendance, in the best form, with the finest and cleanest down pillow that I can find.

I play him some music he's never heard, while he cooks me an omelette. Freelance Whales, The National. He's meticulous about how he serves me, plating it beautifully and adding garnish to the hummus he's put on the side. A fervid love of hummus is the latest culinary commonality we've discovered between us: we could both eat it by the spoonful, and do. We marvel for the dozenth time at how well we "synch up", as he puts it. He shows me some of the early work he's done on his next round of paintings. He plays his film school thesis project for me, and I read some of his shorter writings - pieces I'd skimmed on his portfolio site before, but never looked at closely. He wants to share these things with me, needs to even - but gets uncomfortable the minute I start to compliment his work, which is thorough, thoughtful, and exciting.

I leave to crash back at home; I'm utterly exhausted, and he has an 8am TV installation. As I'm collapsing into bed, the phone rings. He's calling just to tell me how much he cares about me, how happy he is we've gotten together.

I sleep harder than I have in ages.

Prom night ‘12

I'm finishing up getting ready when he knocks on my door and pops his head in, peering down to the bathroom where I stand primping. "Are you decent?" I hear two more voices, and before I know what's happening, the snap and flash of a camera catch me off guard.

"It's prom," Greg says, grinning. "We have to have a prom photographer, right?"

My jaw falls open as he steps over to greet me with a hug and kiss and the coyest What? face I've ever seen. More snaps, more flashes. He's brought his best friend (who brought along his girlfriend) to document the scene, to photograph us greeting one another, getting ready, and leaving together. He's been planning this for days, as a fun surprise to start off the night. I'm still processing this information when I realize he's holding a small wooden planter with three orchid stems.

"I didn't think you'd want to be encumbered by a corsage, but I still wanted to give you flowers." He holds up the base, turning it to show me what he's written in marker at the bottom. "See? I inscribed it." I read: Prom Night '12. I quickly run out of ways to exclaim my surprise and delight, and just keep repeating "You're ridiculous," while shaking my head.

We pose for several classic, cheesy prom shots, but his friend keeps snapping even while we properly greet one another, taking in each other's formal wear. It's the first time I've seen him in a suit, and I'm so impressed I'm actually a bit intimidated. I'll spend all night fingering the crisp, smooth fabric of his shirt, which is impeccably tailored and perfectly pressed. His pants and jacket are slim fitting, luxe, well chosen. I'll tell him later that when, in the past, the men in my life have wanted help assembling stylish, polished outfits (and I've faltered, because WTF do I know about men's clothes?), that his ensemble - and the way he wears it - is what they had in mind.

His friend continues to shoot nonstop until we're outside the building, encouraging us to mug and ham for the camera. Greg, who normally hates to have his photo taken, is fully committed and goofy, kissing my cheek, popping the corner of his glasses into his mouth, kicking up his heels. Out on the street, we say goodbye to his friends and grab a taxi. The event itself is much smaller and less formal than I'd anticipated, but the DJs are fantastic and we have a great time talking, dancing, and shamelessly flirting with one another. He says things I never expected to hear from anyone, much less him. He says things I hope I never forget. It's easy and comfortable to be with him. The more time we spend together, the more we realize how alike we are, in our personality quirks (read: neuroses); this amuses us greatly (probably because we both are neurotic).

Afterwards, we get breakfast at The Pantry, feeding one another bites of pancake, of egg-soaked sourdough and bacon. Back outside, we head towards our street before realizing it's too cold and my legs are too sore to hoof it all the way home. He jumps onto a low wall adjacent to the sidewalk and moons the street while I wave down a cab. I climb inside the car and he comes skipping to join me, tucking in his shirt and zipping up his pants while he runs. We sleep fitfully, tangled up in our limbs, the sheets, and a half-drunken desire to make love. In the morning, we lounge for hours and talk. I notice that I'm starting to mimic his speaking cadence - even his accent when it comes out after a few drinks.

He plays Moxy Fruvous for me and rubs my calves (brutally sore from racing him three blocks home a few nights prior). Without accompaniment, I sing Suzanne Vega's Gypsy in his ear, though I forget the third verse. I'm aware as I sing them how well the lyrics fit him. Distracted by the women with the dimples, and the curls.

He shows me two of his favorite short films, and listens thoughtfully, smiling, when I deconstruct Cashback.

"It's problematical," I say, and he encourages me to explain. He understands what I mean by "male gaze" (he's used the phrase himself before), and he doesn't get defensive when I criticize the film both from a feminist perspective and my own personal one.

We finally tear ourselves out of bed to walk the dogs and get coffee across the street. When I spill my caramel macchiato down the front of my favorite Free City t-shirt, we both laugh at me.

The sun is strong and it's a pretty day.

Wordless. Full of words.

It's just past seven in the morning when my father calls. I'm asleep - we both are. It's the first night Greg. and I have spent together where I've really, actually slept, and well.

The night before: running together in south central LA, then wandering around the Arts District, shivering and holding on to one another in the late night cold, clad only in t-shirts and sweat pants. "Ok, we've got a budget of $20," he says, peering into his wallet. It becomes an adventure, and we weigh our options carefully: hot soup, to warm us up; bubble tea, in Little Tokyo; Pinkberry; drinks at a lounge where jazz singers are having an open mic session (our first choice, but the menu prices force us back on our way). We choose a tiny sushi joint, ordering the most food we can for $10 - shrimp and vegetable tempura, and soup.

"If you don't charge us a split plate fee, we'll have more to tip you," Greg tells the server, with a smile. We're not charged for the split, and the sushi chef even prepares a couple of complimentary tasting dishes for us: savory chicken meatballs that crumble in our chopsticks, and thinly sliced Kobe beef of which Greg feeds me the lion's share. Everything tastes scrumptious to me, starving and cold from our long walk, though I refuse to eat the shrimp tails. "Come on, they're fried," he cajoles, but I'm having none of it.

Afterward, we amble back through Little Tokyo, talking about work, career options for me, the who-knows-maybe possibility of living together someday down the line. I tell him how fun and exciting it is to have an artist for a boyfriend. He tells me he's in it - our relationship - for the long haul. I tell him I am, too. He says the thing he's been saying for weeks now, and the way he says it - with that soft, happy smile and slight shaking of his head - makes me believe it: We're so great, baby. We're so great together. He tells me there are no "buts" with me. No problems, or issues, or exclusionary clauses to loving me.

Later, I'll tell him how easy it is to love him. That I've never known a man so easy to love, in fact, or who's made it so easy. You cleared out all the obstacles. You made a path for me, I'll say.

We take our remaining $7 and go to Yogurtland, where we guesstimate serving sizes by the ounce, trying to squeeze out every last dime. I'm a novice at self-serve fro-yo, and make my selections cautiously. "There are no rules here, you know." His eyes are bright. "You can even put toppings between layers."

We nearly nail it, coming in at $6.36. "We can still afford another cherry," Greg says, half seriously. "Grab one." I push him away from the counter, and we sit and gorge on nearly identical choices in flavors and toppings: dulce de leche, cookie dough, vanilla, cookies and cream, caramel syrup.

On the walk home, I'm asthmatic from the cold. Greg wraps his arms around me from behind, lifting my arms above my head and pressing his chest to my back. He instructs me to take slow, deep breaths, holding and exhaling with me while I try to fill my lungs.

Back at his apartment, he tends to his sick dog while I play my favorite numbers from American Idols past, and make him watch Johann Hari's speech about religious fundamentalism. When he takes issue with part of the speech and I get defensive, he calls me on it.

"Don't steamroll me," he says. "Just because I can't formulate my arguments as quickly as you doesn't mean I don't have something worthwhile to say. Someday you're going to talk right over someone who has some great, Christopher Hitchens-esque point to make, and you'll never even get to hear it."

Later, we get silly, looking up the words to the diarrhea song (the condition of which is affecting his dog, terribly) and watching funny YouTube videos. When I nearly fall out of his lap, hysterical, during my favorite Quiznos commercial, he shakes his head in wonder, staring at me. "Who are you," he asks, not for the first time. He shows me a mock-up of four versions of his latest piece, and we're in agreement on which one is the best. We don't go to bed until past two am.

—-

When the early morning call comes, I send it to voicemail without much thought. My dad knows the chances of me being awake at that hour are slim to none; he'll be expecting me not to return the call until later. We sleep until 11, and Greg makes us breakfast: eggs, bacon, broiled tomatoes, hummus. I hand grind coffee beans, which he then carefully brews in a pour over, using a drip kettle; he explains how the process keeps the grounds from becoming too bitter. When I help him unload/load the dishwasher, he comments on it, appreciative, and gets excited when he sees I've made his bed for him.

It isn't until after noon that I listen to the message my dad has left. His voice is hoarse, strained. He's in the hospital. Pneumonia. It's nothing to worry about, he says. He's going be sent home within the next day, barring any unforeseen complications. He doesn't leave the name of the hospital in his voicemail, and when I call his cell phone back, he doesn't answer.

I get online and start calling hospitals near the small city where he lives, outside of Tampa. The second one I try affirms he's checked in, and connects me to his room. His room number is the same as my apartment number. His voice sounds strong when he answers, and when he hears it's me, he exclaims excitedly, the phrase he always says when I call, his New York accent still thick and comforting to me: How ya doing, child?

He tells me he's about to be discharged. He tells me he's had three days of tests, at the hospital. He tells me he's just spoken to the doctor, an hour ago, and just gotten his diagnosis.

He tells me he has small cell lung cancer.

He tells me that the prognosis is not good.

He tells me that they want to start treatment immediately. That he told the doctor no one was laying a finger on him until he spoke with his daughter. He tells me he'd like to see me, and my heart splits, to think he thinks he needs to say it. Of course, I mumble, biting my tongue to not cry. I'll be there tomorrow.

Everything after that gets blurry.

He says something about making decisions. I hear the phrases "end of life" and "quality of life", but they sound as if they're coming from far, far away, or through water.

After we say goodbye, I go upstairs. Greg tries to hold me, but I'm too angry to stay still. So, so, so angry. There's no correlation, there's no point in tying the two things together, but I do it anyway: I've just lost my mother, less than three years ago. It's juvenile and self-indulgent and I know better than to think there's some force of judgment at work anywhere in the universe, but all I can think, over and over, is it's not fair. Both my parents, before I'm even forty?? It's not fair.

I clench my fists and yell and run to Greg's bathroom where I clutch at towels and cry out in rage. When I come back out, I apologize, and Greg shakes his head. "What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry for. You wanna scream? Scream. You want to cry? Cry. You want to hit me? Hit me."

I feel stupid, useless, helpless, self-conscious. I don't know what behavior is appropriate. I'm angry at myself, because my tears feel like they're for myself. Like self-pity, which I have no business feeling. "Let's be productive," Greg says. He books me a flight, using his own miles, and necessarily paying for it because he's done so. When I ask him to, he reads to me from his laptop about small cell lung cancer. He doesn't say much, but I can see what he's not saying, in the way he glosses over paragraphs. He finally just looks at me and shakes his head. "Is that enough?" he asks gently, meaningfully. "It's cancer. Even if it's toe cancer, it's never good."

When I break down, he holds me tightly and tells me that it isn't necessarily a death sentence. Options. Treatment. But I know my father. He's the man who always swore he'd put a bullet in his own head when he started to feel his vitality slipping away.

I can't imagine the ways this is hitting him.

Greg tells me not to worry about us, but he makes me pinky promise I'll not stay in Florida forever, that I'll be back. I look him in the eye and tell him I may have to stay for a while, that I don't know what my father is going to want to do, or what to expect. He understands, he says. "We'll figure it out." He puts his forehead against mine. "I'm so sorry. No one should have to deal with this. Not you, not him. But you don't need to worry about us. Take that off your plate." He reminds me that I have good friends who love me, who'll help me (Cameron has already agreed to take care of Chaucer while I'm gone) - that I have a new boyfriend who'll do whatever he can to support me.

He walks me back downstairs, not turning or walking away until I've shut the door in front of him. "There's no reason for you to be alone right now," he says, but that's all I want. I want to write and eat and hold my dog and catch my breath. He doesn't let me go until I promise to have dinner with him tonight, again tomorrow before my red eye, and to let him drive me to the airport. When I object, saying how much I love the Flyaway, he gets genuinely upset. "If you take the Flyaway, I'll never talk to you again. Do you understand? I'm driving you to the airport. That's not open to negotiation."

Once alone, I don't write or eat or do anything until I type the words into the search engine.

small cell lung cancer

Crash course. There are two stages: limited and extensive. I read: The median survival rate (the time at which 50% of people have died and 50% are still alive) is 16-24 months, with a 2-year survival rate of 40-50% -- though only 10% of people with limited stage disease show no evidence of cancer 2 years after diagnosis. The survival rate at 5 years is 14% with treatment.

For extensive stage small cell lung cancer the median survival with treatment is 6 to 12 months with treatment, and only 2 to 4 months without treatment.

I read more: Only about 6% of people with this type of cancer are still alive 5 years after diagnosis.

I stop reading. I hold my dog. I write. I catch my breath, and take a deep one for what lays ahead.

Blake

I spent most of yesterday afternoon curled up in bed, trying to keep (find?) perspective and rehearsing cheery-sounding greetings/encouragements in my head, for when I see my father tomorrow morning. At some point, Greg knocked softly on my door, but I had nothing, nothing, nothing, so I didn't move from where I lay. When I didn't answer, he duct-taped some flowers to my door, and texted. I stole some flowers from downstairs but you're out. Just to be clear, I fully agree that I was an underachiever in just grabbing one stem. In the future, I'll steal for you in bulk.

I told him to come back, and he crawled into bed with me and lay on his side, watching me talk. "I have some good news," he said. "I have business in Florida, in about a week and a half. I'll get to come see you." His family has a home in southern Florida (about three hours from where my dad lives), and he's done some networking with galleries down there, so at first I believed this. Of course, it was a lie, and he admitted it. "I can't come out with you tomorrow, that'd be overkill and you have to get your bearings. But I can come out in about a week and a half. We'll go to Disneyworld." he said. "You shouldn't be alone out there. You don't need to be." I asked if we could go to the aquarium, where there was a really cool jellyfish tank with ultraviolet lights. "Whatever you want," he said, and touched my cheek.

I warned him that my father's house is...eclectically decorated. That it has multicolor walls. Orange. Sherbet green. That they're hung with a random assortment of tapestries, cheap tribal masks, and maps. That any cabinet not crammed with books is filled with horrifying tchotchkes. "The place is sort of insane," I explained. "In fact, I haven't been there since he got that cat last year. I'm worried for the cat's sanity." Greg said it sounded fabulous and he was looking forward to meeting my father. We talked about not knowing how long I'd be gone. When I started to get anxious, he told me to relax. "We'll figure it out. You don't know anything yet. What's important is that we love each other and we want to be together." For the dozenth time, he made promise not to move to Florida permanently. And he reminded me that there was no reason for me to stop writing while I was gone, or to stop looking for work.

Around nine, we walked to the grocery store for dinner supplies. Before I could stop him, he marched straight to the seafood counter and asked the butcher (fishmonger?) for a live lobster. My protestations were, predictably enough, ignored. "Can you take off the bands now, too?" he said to the guy. "We like to live dangerously." The counter guy pulled a fat, maroon-colored lobster from the tank and held it up for our inspection. When it started to thrash its claws about, he announced it was a good choice. "They're supposed to be lively," he explained. "That's what Martha says."

So we named her Blake.

We carried Blake home and I popped into the bathroom while Greg unloaded the groceries. When I came out, he asked me to check on her. "Is she still in the bag? I put her in the bottom right drawer of the refrigerator." When I opened the fridge to look, the drawer was empty. I peered around for minute, frowning, before I saw him grinning at me.

Blake spent her last minutes of life in Greg's kitchen sink (having first suffered the indignity of being sniffed and rebuffed by Sydney), after which I was given a chance to a) leave or b) at least avert my gaze for The Killing. I chose to watch, fascinated, as he butchered the beast up. We stuck her in the oven along with some asparagus that we dressed in soy sauce, and Greg showed me how to clarify butter. He kneeled down and looked at our dinner. "Is it supposed to still be moving?" he asked. I sat on the floor, indian-style, to watch the lobster steam and twitch. Fifteen minutes later, we feasted straight from the trays, using our fingers to tear meat from shell, and feeding one another drippy, buttery bites of animal and vegetable.

Afterwards, he made me wait on my favorite lounge chair while he sprinted across the street to Famima for a surprise. When he came back, he unloaded a bag with four tiny containers of Haagen Dazs, milk, and various kinds of cookies, candy, and my favorite cereal. He pulled out Hershey's syrup, peanut butter, and a banana from his pantry, and a Magic Bullet from his cabinet. I stared at the bounty, terrified, and he lifted me by my waist onto his kitchen island, to watch. "Shakes," he explained. "Endless varieties. Anything you want."

"You're making me a shake sampler?" I asked.

“A shake flight," he corrected.

Under my direction, he made two shakes before we had to let Sydney out for a pee. I borrowed a huge hooded sweatshirt and a pair of his Converse, and shuffled down the hall with him and his dog, sucking my cookies-and-cream shake through a bendy straw. When we got downstairs and he saw that it was raining, he ordered me to wait inside. "If she opens that door," he said to our doorman, "tackle her."

I let him get two steps out in the pouring rain before carefully stepping out after him. The sidewalk was slick and I had to slide my feet along so as not to slip in his oversized shoes. When I caught up with him, unsuccessfully trying to convince his dog to step into a puddle-filled tree well, he shook his head at me.

Back upstairs, he showed me something he'd spent the day working on: an idea he had for a new line of work he'd been experimenting with - one that would be both labor and technically intensive, but really interesting, and hugely marketable. I told him how much he impresses me, and he dropped his eyes and stepped away, smiling, in the way he always does when my praise pleases but embarrasses him.

We debated several movie choices before I realized I really wasn't up for anything, that I wanted to be done thinking, and to just sleep. I thanked him for being a spectacular boyfriend, for spending the day taking care of me, doing things to distract me. I pointed out that over the past days he'd spent several hours helping me in some way: cooking for me, doing work on my apartment (a panel/rod of my curtains came out of he wall), doing thoughtful, fun things to make me happy.

"I'd do anything to make you smile," he said.

I didn't sleep well, but that had nothing to do with him. Or Blake.

des amis

Remember my French friend from the creperie around the corner? Well, I've gotten to be buddies with him, in a way. He chats me up whenever he's outside and I walk by, or when I stop in to eat. We limit our talks to the subjects I have the vocabulary to sustain: my dog, food, love - or a lack thereof. For a while, he'd gotten used to seeing A. and I as a couple, and when we broke up, he made his disapproval clear. I guess he thinks because we look good together, we should be together? He always tries to convince me that A. is amoreux de moi. "Non,' I tell him, "nous sommes seulement des amis."

Alex always encourages me to come by more often, to sit and have a coffee with him and just practice my French. "You don't need to buy anything," he assures me. "Just come talk."

So the other day, I did.

I walk in and sit at the counter, where I can watch him and the other cooks smooth out the crepe batter in perfect circles. "J'ai faim," I announce, and he gets to work. He knows I always want the same thing.

We chat a bit while he fixes my lunch, and just as he serves me, I hear the door behind me swing open. I glance backwards and do a double take. Greg's just walked in. He joins me, a bit flustered, saying he didn't know I was here, and he'll leave, and apologizing for being there - and then apologizing for being flustered. I tell him not to be silly and that he should split my sandwich with me, because I can never finish it.

Alex fixes himself a tuna sandwich and sits near us, while we semi-awkwardly catch up. After a minute, we're relaxed and talking like usual. I use my fork to push a small speared gherkin across the plate towards him. "Eat your cornichon," I say.

"That's not a cornish hen!" he says scornfully.

"Stop it," I tell him. I don't have the strength to banter. But he does. He's always on, in the early part of the day. Me, I don't warm up until night.

"Where do you think he gets them? These cornish hens." We're both staring at a tiny, wrinkled pickle.

"Cornwall," I say. "It's like champagne. You call only call it champagne if it comes from the Champagne region of France. And you can only call them cornish hens if they come from Cornwall, England." He grins and I suddenly feel tired.

"Can I have a hug?" he asks. I grant the request, leaning over uncomfortably in my chair to wrap my arms around him for a moment. Alex nods approvingly. "That's what I like to see," he says. "You can only come to my house if it is like that. For wine. You like wine?"

I have no idea what he's talking about. Go to his house? Did I make some forgotten date with my ex-boyfriend to go drinking at the crepe guy's house?

The hug feels like it's lasting a very long time. I warn Greg, half jokingly, that he'd better be careful or I'll hijack his afternoon and throw him in bed.

We finish and Greg walks me out, accompanying me halfway down the block to the dry cleaner's, where he asks for another hug. I oblige again. He rubs my back while we hug on the sidewalk and playfully, inexplicably, calls me "Meatball". I've never heard him call me that before, but okay. I don't have the strength to question the moment or his sweetness. I'll be Meatball.

He leaves and I fetch my dry cleaning and go home alone.

Relapse

On Saturday, I wake up to a message from a girlfriend. She's thinking maybe let's skip Chateau Marmont tonight, and just hang out close to home. Maybe go to Autumn Lights, in Pershing Square? I reply with passive aggression that I immediately regret, Whatever you want. I'm disappointed. It had been her idea to go in the first place, and I was excited to get out of downtown. Excited to go to a straight bar, for a change. Her boyfriend was going to come, so I could have done my own thing while they did theirs. And I could have had wingmen, for once.

She knows I'm upset and apologizes for changing plans; she's just not feeling Hollywood. I'm not mad, though, and I tell her. I'm just low and lonely and feeling sorry for myself. Distraction, as always, is my drug. And there's only so much to be distracted by, around the same ten blocks I see all day, every day.

I tell her I'll catch up with her and her boyfriend later, but I have zero intention of fulfilling that promise. I'm spiraling down, fast. Hitting a wall, though it feels more like the wall is hitting me. Before I know it, I'm slumped on the bathroom floor. Where the fuck did this come from? I roll around on the rock bottom for a while, absolutely leveled, before it disappears, just as quickly as it came.

It. Whatever "it" is. Something that can't be defined, but that feels more real than me.

It goes, and a shocking jolt of optimism takes its place. Now I'm laughing. Laughing at myself, even. What the hell was I so upset about? It's a gorgeous afternoon, my apartment is spotless, and a surge of motivation hits me. I decide to get pizza, plug into a quiet night at home, and work on my portfolio. Chaucer comes with me, four blocks, to pick up three slices of Two Boots. I'm feeling up, up, up again.

After I eat, I decide to just swing by Pershing Square and check out Autumn Lights. People milling about draw me in, as ever. Chaucer makes friends. I get a quick fix of socialization.

A friend calls me as I'm outfitting Chaucer with a glow necklace. She can see me in the park, from her apartment window. I look up and wave, and she and her boyfriend come down to check out the installations before walking to dinner. She and I text for a bit afterward, and it helps me feel less isolated, standing as I am, surrounded by hundreds of strangers. I take Chaucer home, but I don't want to stay in. It's Saturday night, and I can hear the streets below filled with shouts and laughter.

I become momentarily convinced that I am the last single person in Los Angeles.

I go back to the park. I play with Hipstamatic and wander for another hour, before sitting on a low concrete wall, smack in the middle of the park. The park lights are all off, and the various displays of lights, LED sculptures, multi-media projections, lasers, blacklight, and glow paints stand out in glorious vividness. A band is playing at the front of the park, the lead singer of which sounds vaguely like Sigur Ros.

I lay back on the wall, place my phone on my stomach, and close my eyes. I feel intensely, painfully lonely. The crazy thing is, I have turned down four invitations from others, to do things tonight. This is completely self-imposed. An acquaintance is in town; he invited me out when we ran into one another on the street, Friday. A friend-of-a-friend invited me to tag along with him and friends to Nocturnal Wonderland this weekend. Another friend invited me to Venice tonight, to crash their guys' night. And my girlfriend, once she realized how bummy I was this morning, re-issued the original invitation to go to Hollywood.

I turned it all down. I have no idea why. Wait, yes I do. Because it all felt very fifth-wheely. Invitations extended out of generosity. What, Ellie? You have nothing to do tonight? You should come...

I'm making one last walk-through, dawdling before heading back home, when I run into Greg. Rather, he runs into me. I'm watching some kids participate in an interactive visual illusion, when he steps through, momentarily interrupting the exhibit. I'm extending my leg to gently kick him and get his attention when he suddenly notices me. Smiles. A lingering hug. He's on his way to a birthday party, gift in hand. We're not really saying much, just repeating empty greetings, but he's not walking away. I feel myself grinning. I can't help it: from day one, I've broken into a smile every time I see him. It's a hard an impossible habit to break.

We're standing exceptionally close. I'm fingering the sleeve of his t-shirt, keeping my face cast down, glancing up at him every few seconds. He halfheartedly tells me to stop, his voice low and husky, and wraps his hand around my waist. I laugh, because I have to; it's too much. It's just enough. "Here we are again," I say. "Standing in the middle of some festival, hanging one to one another." I lean closer. He loses his breath, inhales sharply, then lets out a deep sigh. The world feels like it's tipping back into its proper axis. Something, he's saying something. He's been thinking about me today. Is that what he said? Consuming my thoughts. I think that's what I hear. The phrasing is delicious, that I know. But it doesn't matter. I shouldn't listen to these words, anyway. They're candy that melts much too fast on my tongue. A sugar rush after which I'll crash. And crave again.

We're practically kissing, we're so close. His hand moves around to my stomach; he's telling me I look good. I take his palm and place it under my shirt, flat on my bare belly. He makes a noise. All I know, the only thing I can think, is how good he smells, because now I'm putting my lips to his neck. "I still have your boxers," I murmur. "You should come get them later." Now we are kissing, carelessly amongst the crowd.

I'm being ridiculous, reckless with my own feelings, but it's okay. I feel strangely okay with the gamble I'm taking. What else is there to lose? It's all gone, anyway. And right now I feel more alive than I have in days. The only thing that cuts through the numbness is the feel of his breath on my shoulder. He whispers in my ear, an explicit description of the state I've put him in. I cannot stop smiling, and I don't want him to leave. We finally break the embrace and go our separate ways. As I move through the crowd, I'm convinced my body is glowing just as brightly as the bulbs and baubles they're gazing at.

Back home, I hang Chaucer's oversized, neon green necklace on his door, and text him. I lost my glow sticks somewhere. Would you let me know if you find them?

Later, connection again. He has new work to show to me, and one piece makes me laugh out loud, the idea is so clever. He also has new music to share, sensual and layered. A soundtrack for the next few hours. The warmth of his touch, his words. I've missed this, he says. You're so beautiful. And the worst, the best, the most confounding and infuriating and satisfying: There's no one else like you. Words, words, words. Words to torture and tease, words that could be truth or lies, words that don't change anything. Sometimes I'm afraid no one will ever love me as much as you do. I lose no time in assuring him that's true. They won't, I say softly, as I move my mouth across his body. I've got words, too.

Relapse. Two steps forward, three steps back.

multiple copies

I'm gearing up to mop when he calls. "Listen, I gotta meet a guy in a little while, but you do want to get coffee?" I ask if he means right now, glancing at my sink, stopped up and full of steaming water. He does. "Meet you downstairs in five," I say.

I throw on my favorite scarf and hoodie, slip into my cleanest pair of Converse, swipe on some lipgloss, and head down. When I get to the lobby, he's waiting just outside the front door, in the crisp night air. The wool of his winter coat feels smooth against my cheek as he gives me a one-armed hug. We grin at one another and start walking.

It's the tail end of rush hour, our bodies and faces illuminated by headlights as we cross the street. I wonder what we look like to those drivers, what descriptors, if any, come to their minds as they watch us walk by them. A thought flashes through my mind, a recognition that how I must look in this moment would have appealed greatly to my younger self. Casually dressed, but stylish. Stepping lightly across a busy city street, in the company of a dark and handsome young man, smiles on both of our faces. My twenty-seven-year old self would have looked wistfully at me, wondering at my life, at who I was and what made up my days.

It's been about a week since we've seen each other, and we've got catching up to do. As we wait in line at Starbucks, he tells me he has good news. "I'm not leaving downtown. I'm staying here." At first I don't realize what he's talking about, but he quickly fills in the gaps. He's found a new apartment, a few blocks away. He's signed a lease and given notice. He's moving out of our building in a few weeks. He looks at me carefully as he says all of this. I smile, genuinely happy to hear he's found a place he likes. I ask questions about it, and congratulate him. "I wanted to tell you first," he says in a gentle voice. "I know I'd be a little hurt if you left." I say it would be silly for me to be hurt; his move isn't something I should or do take personally. I don't even know if I'm staying, after all. Neither of us can really afford our lofts.

"Still," he says. "even though we're not together, I feel like we have a responsibility to protect one another. You know what I mean, right?" He's looking directly at me. I know exactly what he means, and my heart squeezes with gratitude and joy. I add what he's just said to something else he said recently, when I had an exceptionally bad few days and reached out to him for support - which he gave: "I will always be there for you." Lucky. I am so lucky. He's a good man. He's a good friend.

I feel like I could quickly become overcome with emotion, so I glance away. There's a massive clear plastic tube filled with caramel on the espresso machine in front of us, and I point at it. I tell him I'd like to cut the end of it and just suck on it. "Do you think they'd mind?"

"Excuse me," he says to the barrista preparing our drinks. "How much for this caramel right here?" We're informed, unsurprisingly, that it's not for sale. "Well, can we at least touch it?" He reaches over the glass and pokes the tube, which squishes in response.

"Ew, stop," I say, trying not to laugh.

We sit outside for a little while, and he brings me up to speed on his work, which is going great. I bring him up to speed on some nice developments in my personal life, and he's sincere and warm in telling me how happy he is to hear it.

"You bounce back to vibrant," he says. It's not the first time he's said this to me, but I carefully file the compliment away in my mind. It's one I'm happy to have multiple copies of.

It's gotten chilly, so we finish our drinks and walk back. He links his arm through mine as we cross the street and again I wonder at the figure we must cut together, silhouetted in headlights. I briefly rest my head on his shoulder. As we wait on the corner for the light to change, we reaffirm our affection for one another. "I think this is going to be good for us," he says. I agree, because he's right. He won't be far. We can still meet for coffee on a moment's notice, but we won't have the stress of running into one another unexpectedly. We'll be able to bring dates home without fear of surprising the other into painful feelings.

He walks me back to my apartment, coming in to play with Chaucer for a minute, and to fix a few things for me, including my yet-again on-the-fritz printer. Then: another hug, kisses on one another's cheeks, and he's gone.

I walk to my kitchen sink and tentatively stick a finger into the water. It's still warm enough to mop.

it’s all okay

I wake to music. Bass guitar and muffled lyrics: sound checks on the street below. The nostalgia wastes no time settling on me as I lay in bed, a fine dust I know will be difficult to shake off. Last year's St. Patrick's Day was one of the best days in I've had in LA. I spent the day with Cameron and Greg, the two people I felt closest to, men who I knew understood and loved me, in spite of everything awful about me. We stood together, alone amongst thousands of other people, threw our arms around one another, and belted out the words to songs that dialed me back years, to other joyful times in my life. Music and love, romantic and Platonic, memories created and called upon, just steps from my front door. I was enraptured by life that day.

Drugs will do that to you.

And it's drugs that are on my mind when I wake up, because I'm scared. I'm scared that this nostalgia will choke me if I don't find something sweet to wash it down with. So much has changed in the past year. I've grown enormously, yes. I've tried to roll with the knocks, both brutal and easy, and I think I've landed in a pretty good place. But a part of me can't help but long for the life I had 365 days ago. A few weeks after St. Patrick's Day, 2012, I was on a plane to Florida to help my father die. A few months after that, the relationship that I'd clung to like a life raft, terrified of even more loss, ended, sending me into a spiral of desperation and suicidal ideation. And a few months after that, Cameron moved away, taking with him something I hadn't even known existed until I met him.

Constants downgraded to variables. Touchstones crumbled to ashes. Remember, Ellie, this is why you don't hang your happiness on things that can change.

Yeah, well.

But though my mind occasionally flashes to the contents of the tiny plastic bag inside the vase that's pushed far to the back of my highest kitchen cabinet shelf, I'm determined to give it a go without. I can do this. I'll just get hammered and have a great time with my friends. I won't look back.

I take Chaucer for a long, brisk walk, and he even gets some rare, off-leash play with another dog. This feels like a good sign, and as we round the corner of my block, the barricades and trucks, the tents and lights and balloons, the early revelers that are already trickling into the street festival, charge me up with positive vibes. It's going to be a good day.

I don't even have a plan, really. I've invited Kerry and Ross to join me, but it's iffy that they're going to come. Some acquaintances from the neighborhood, and another one from my building, have said they'll be there, but we haven't set a time or a meetup point, and it will be hard to find them in the crowd. I consider texting some other downtown friends, but decide against it. If I'm going to spend time with anyone today, it needs to be with people I love. The only people I feel close to that are actually nearby, and that can come, are Kerry and Ross, but as they're not fans of crowds, there's a very good chance that I'll be going alone.

And I'm mostly okay with that, since a) not going is not an option, because the sound of the massive party pouring in my windows would just be too depressing to hide from, b) I know after a few drinks I'll be happy to mingle with strangers, anyway, and c) Greg is going, and I know if I run into him, we'll probably stick together for the day.

I feed Chaucer, slam water to rehydrate from a party the night before, and get dressed while listening to Flogging Molly, loud. It's the one day a year I can blast music with impunity, since my neighbors can't hear it above what is already rocking our building from the street below. I put on a button down, a kelly green sweater, a plaid miniskirt, over-the-knee socks, a skinny scarf, and a pair of combat boots. An outfit that's ridiculous and way too young, but which I can get away with on a day like today, when silliness, spirit, and inappropriate wardrobe choices abound.

I put in a final request urging Kerry and Ross to come over, and head downstairs. Residents of my building have been given free VIP access to the festival, so I get to bypass the block-long line and walk in with almost no wait. I'm trying to psych myself up for the day, but I'm not feeling it. And as I drift into the crowd, populated by clusters of laughing friends, I lose emotional steam. I don't want to be alone here. But the U2 cover band that I loved so much last year and the year before is playing, so I put on my game face and push up towards the stage. The sun is beating down on me, and I realize that a cashmere sweater, wool thigh highs, and no sunglasses was a bad call.

I'm debating whether to get a drink, run back home to change, or leave downtown for the day altogether when I realize someone is talking to me. A guy decked out in festive accessories is asking me something. Who are you looking for? Are you alone?

No, I'm not alone, I reply. Are you alone? It's only sort of a lie. Kerry and Ross may come, and if not, I know I'll run into people I know soon enough. The guy says he's looking for a girl, a friend he's lost in the crowd. He tells me I look like I just walked out of Hogwarts. I laugh, but have no witty comeback. I can't wrap my head around this conversation, I say honestly. I'm way too sober. Sensing I'm not in party mode yet, the guy wishes me a happy holiday and disappears back into the throng.

I realize I'm sweating in my layers, and that if I don't go home and change, my low mood has a zero percent chance of improving. As I head out the exit, I see that at this point, even the VIP line has gotten ridiculous, and I'll be in for a wait when I come back. But my apartment is just around the corner, so I decide it's still worth being more comfortable.

At home, I tear off my sweater and shirt, my skirt and my socks. Chaucer dances around me excitedly, nervous at all the energy and sound filling our tiny space. I change into a tank top layered under a green and black striped crop top, jeans, and Converse. I drink another glass of water, and lean against the counter, trying to relax. I want to have a good day. I need to have a good day. I can't have last year back, but I can have something equally good, if I choose it. I have to choose it.

But the day has taken on a life and a meaning of its own, and I feel helpless to stop it. It suddenly feels like a litmus test of my happiness. I'm petrified of the comparison between this St. Patrick's Day and the last one, and what it will do to me if today is a bummer. And that's when I decide to write myself a money-back guarantee.

I have to stand on the tips of my toes to reach the vase. I pull it down carefully, and take a small, compressed tablet out of the bag inside. It's purplish-white, with the shape of a cat stamped on one side and M80 on the other. Other than the thickness and the stamps, it looks exactly like my synthroid pills. I force down two more full glasses of water before I swallow the tab, and promise myself I'll get more water at the bar downstairs, first thing.

Back at the festival, I have a twenty minute wait just to get in again. I try not to feel frustrated as I hear the band play songs I love, reminding myself that it'll be at least forty minutes before I start to roll, anyway. Kerry and Ross text to say they're on their way; that they're just drinking some whiskey first. A knot in my shoulders loosens. Yes. I won't be alone today. In just a little while I'll be laughing and singing and cavorting with friends, just like everyone else. Gratitude washes over me, and logistics settled, I focus on guiding the warmth and light that's slowly building in my bloodstream, on channeling it up through my neural pathways, out my fingertips, and into the world around me. I imagine myself a conduit and a receptacle. I can take energy and I can give it. Today will be what I make of it. This high will run the course that I take it on. Make the conscious decision, Ellie. Choose light and love and laughter, and those are the things you will get.

Serotonin is a biological miracle in and of itself, and I'm awed by the fact that humans have figured out a way to hijack and amplify it, purely for recreational purposes. This is one of the last sober thoughts I remember having, before the light and love and laughter float me up to another plane, where I spend the next several hours.

---

To write the rest of yesterday in chronological, sensical, and dryly factual prose would feel like a lie, because my thoughts, feelings, and experiences were deeply colored by the drug I took. I just don't know that I'd be able to accurately recreate what actually happened. What was said, and thought, and felt. Or if not a lie, maybe something even worse - some kind of gross imprisonment of things pure and organic and defying of classification. Things that shouldn't be bottled up or tied down, because they aren't mine alone for the tying down.

If you haven't been there, I know that doesn't make any sense. But if you have, you understand what I'm trying to say, even if my words are overly florid and melodramatic. There's nothing you can say to make someone who's never taken MDMA understand what it's like, because the experience is so individual for everyone. Every time I try to explain it, or write about it, I come up against a wall that divides the words I know from the feelings I want to describe. Everything I'd want to make understood is on the far side of that wall, beyond the reach of description. The closest I could come would be to just write the word euphoria, over and over and over a hundred times.

But since that would be boring, I'll put some more words down, anyway.

---

Back at the stage. Sunlight feels good now. Yes. Really good. The crowd thickens around me. Not pushy, not drunken. Just happy. Or maybe it's me. Maybe that's it.

Tap on my shoulder. Tall young man, bowler hat. Grass green vest, green plaid tie. Green eyes, devastating eyelashes, straight black hair past his shoulders. His exaggerated bow. M'lady. My delighted laughter. A hug. An acquaintance who works in the neighborhood. From New Zealand. His accent and dialect are charming. Much younger. Works at my favorite casual lunch spot. I sit at the counter, we chat while he cooks.

Do you want a drink?

Not drinking today. My meaningful look. But I will need water soon.

He understands. Stay put, be right back. Couldn't move if I wanted to.

A few minutes later, a cold bottle is pressed into my hands. Lots of birds here.

Birds?

Birds. Women.

Yes. Birds. I love it. The music and sunshine, the connectivity. Strangers smiling. Singing to themselves, one another. Sunday Bloody Sunday. A massive Irish flag, waved across a stage. I can feel it now. It's definitely here. It's good. It's going to be really good. The chatty phase.

I sent the lead singer some photos I got of him a couple years ago, and he loved them.

Yeah? Did he ever try to holler at you?

Holler?

Holler at. You know, like, ask you out.

I love this, too. Oh no, nothing like that. I never met him or anything.

Well, he would if he met you. You know that right?

Turning to face him. What...?

You have no idea. You're the most radiant woman. When you walk down the street... He trails off.

I smile. Looking straight at him. Leaning close to his ear. That is such an amazing thing to say to a girl. Really. That's the most beautiful compliment, and I'm so flattered. But we're friends, right? And we're going to stay friends? You know how old I am, right?

Oh, I know. I know. I wasn't... His face is sincere. He's just being sweet. And drunk. Confessing a crush. No hurt feelings. It's good. Everything is good. He drifts away soon, though. Later, I'll bump into him. Bombshell redhead, green halter dress. Seems genuinely happy to be talking to him. Yes. Good for him. An introduction. I tell her with honesty how stunning she is, how much she stands out in the crowd. His smile is even bigger than hers. No trace of resentment or weirdness. Everything is okay. I've lost nothing. Maybe even gained something.

I float a little bit higher, and memories form with a bit more disjointedness.

---

Kerry and Ross arrive. Kerry's tipsy, but rattled by a dog attack they witnessed on the way over. Me joking and laughing. Cajoling her out of a bad mood. She's okay. She's happy. A friend of hers is here. We meet up. VIP section. Our group grows: friends of friends, coworkers, partners. Laughter, random connection, coincidence in a not-small town. Wait, you know Stacy too?

Cameron texts me. He's not having a fabulous day. I tell him how much he's missed. Do you remember a year ago right now?

- I do. That was quite a day. How are you doing? Celebratory? Wistful?

- High. Little bit wistful too, yeah. ...Ok, a lot. :(

- Sorry doll. Maybe it's just down payment on future joy. Plus wistful at least means you had good stuff. Nobody's wistful for crap times.

It's cold. I'm cold now. I run home again for a coat. This time I'm not made to wait, and I rejoin my friends quickly. The wind. We huddle together. Drinks, more drinks. Water, more water. I'm in conversation. I'm miles away. I'm face to face. I'm above myself, looking down. This is my life. These are my friends. I live here. I've made this my home. I have work to do, to improve myself, to be a better person, but I've achieved this at least. These good people care about me. There's nothing more beautiful than that. My mind is quick. I'm wittier. I'm making strangers and new friends laugh. The hum and buzz of energy builds around our small cluster in the chilly afternoon. We are happy people, in this moment, on this day.

My heart full. I did it. I made today ok. I feel fantastic. The smiles on the faces of my friends mean everything to me. It's enough. I need nothing more. I deserve nothing more. But I'll get more anyway.

---

We leave the festival, but the group falls apart. Confusion, disagreement; scattered, drunken minds. Some tension. Too much to drink. They want to eat, to slow down and stop soon. I don't. None of that. No way. Not yet. I'm still high, not ready for the weight of reality, of arguments and frustration.

I text Greg again. We've been texting all day, on and off. He's high too. He was at the festival, felt like painting, went home to do work. At a bar now. Come join me, he says. I look at my friends.

Guys, I'm leaving. You're arguing, and I love you, but I'm really high, and I need to keep moving. Okay?

Kerry is hurt, angry. What? No! We'll come with you.

No. I need a Kerry and Ross break, okay? I love you guys to death, but I'm gonna go.

Anger. You're full of shit. You're going to meet someone.

Yes, I am. I'm going to meet Greg He's high too. And I want to see him. Please don't be mad. Are you mad?

Are you leaving because we're fighting or because you want to see Greg?

Both. I want to see him, so it's convenient that you're arguing.

Honesty: a side effect of the drug. Her face softens.

Okay, go.

Are you mad?

No, get out of here.

---

A bar a few blocks away. Crowded, dark. He's not alone. I don't want to be here. I want to be back at the music, under the lights and in the crowd. He agrees. Let's go. Should we take more? Do you have more? I do. Let's split one. I reach deep into my pocket for another tablet, which he carefully bites in half, grimacing at the bitter taste. I drop the other half in my water bottle, shaking it vigorously before taking a sip. His friend leaves.

Just us. Again. Walking down the street. Laughing, talking, reminiscing. Harmless. Happy. High. It starts slow. Can I hug you? I just want to hug you.

Yes. You can. That would be ok. That would be fantastic.

His arms wrap around me from behind. Strong and tight and warm. Back at the festival. Music. Cold. We dance, we play. We hug and hold. I slip my arms into his sweatshirt. What happened? How did this...? Time machine. It's the exact same fucking moment. Almost, anyway. And better, in some ways. No hurt on the horizon. We know the score. This is a safe place we visit. A well we drink from when we're dying of thirst. He gazes down at me. I gaze back up. The grinning. Our grins, always. We must look ridiculous.

Stop.

You stop.

No, you.

The words start.

There's no one like you.

There's no one like you, either.

And so it goes. We walk hand in hand to the bookshelf, and we take it down together. Be careful, it's heavy. We flip through the pages. I point to a picture. He tells the story. Remember? Remember? Sighs that are more happy than sad. That song. Remember? That day. Remember? Bonnaroo. Remember?

We cling to one another, sway to the music. I rest my head against his chest, low because of my flat shoes. His eyes are bright. He is so happy. So, so happy.

I lower the bucket, bring it back up for him to drink from. You know you're the reason I started writing again, right? I mean, serious writing? You unlocked it. You were the muse. You probably saved my life.

His turn. Lower the bucket. Bring it up. I'm thirsty, too. I've never felt better than when I was with you. You made me feel like I'm ok. Like it's ok to be who I really am.

This is what we do. This is the gift we give one another. We've done it over and over, in the months since we ended. And we'll probably do it again.

You have no idea. You're such a happy person. I wish I could be that way.

Do I really seem happy?

El, I've seen you at your absolute worst. The lowest you could possibly be. And it was bad, right? It was really bad. But I see you, and I know who you are, and you are truly so happy. You make yourself happy. You're amazing.

I swallow this, bury it deep down in the safest part of me, and then I give it right back. I praise his talent, his ambition and drive, which are unlike any I've ever seen in a self-employed creative. I don't know how you do it. Every day, you work so hard, and you make it happen. Other things he deserves to know, too. You were the best boyfriend I ever had. You showed so much care and consideration for my well being and my happiness. ...You are the most authentic person I've ever known. Even at your worst, you are always just...you. No artifice. No hiding who you are.

---

It's inevitable, and it starts with the kiss. Minutes long, lingering, in plain sight of everyone milling around us. Drawing the attention - and occasionally the comments - of strangers walking by. Unlike any kiss given back on earth. We're not on earth. We're way, way above it. The things in the kiss are timeless and beautiful: friendship and understanding and compassion and comfort. We are on the exact same plane, physically and emotionally. It's okay. It's so, so okay.

---

Soft blankets. Candlelight. Silly Chauc, go lie down. Laughter. This is so great. How do you feel?

Amazing.

Me too.

He asks whether I've been writing. He doesn't read my blog - only the occasional post that I want to share with him, and that I send to him. Not much, I say. The GOMI thing really fucked me up. I don't want to be judged. Sometimes I wonder why I do it. What am I putting myself out there for? To what end? Even Instagram. It gets exhausting. I think I need a break.

He tells me a story about an artist, some woman who wrote on her website about the lowest, ugliest moments of her heroine addiction and depression. And how it was so relieving to her, to have it all out there. Like, go ahead, judge me if you want, it's just who I am.

Yes, I say excitedly. That's exactly it. It's like a confessional where I can just lay myself out, and people can either accept who I am or not.
Music. Explosions in the Sky, is that ok?

That's perfect.

Postcard From 1952. A more perfect song has never been written. It rips through my heart and my soul, leveling me where I lay, pressed against him. Sheets, smooth and soft. It's cold, though. Put the heat on. Yes. Come back. Come close. You are so beautiful. Your body. Oh El, your body.

Your shoulders. They've been molded. I trace their lines with my fingertips. They're like those things football players wear, what are they called?

Shoulder pads? He laughs. Be quiet.

We talk and talk and kiss and talk and kiss. We talk about our romantic lives, about the people we've met, dated, and connected with - or failed to. We talk about my father, about how experiencing his death together was one of the most powerful and bonding experiences of not just our relationship, but of our lives. I struggle to find the words to tell him how amazing he was for me at that time. Husband-like. That's all I can say. You were just...husband-like. You took charge and did what I couldn't, and you got me through it. Emotionally, logistically, everything.

I'm still so high. I close my eyes and describe the visions in my mind. The faces and shapes and colors and movement. I change the music. Of Monsters and Men. I sing softly in his ear.

A wave of clarity washes over me, and I realize what it is I love most about this man, what is so unique about him to me. He's the only man I've ever known who has willingly, openly, and happily laid his whole heart on the table for me. He's the only one who's been truly emotionally available and vulnerable, ready to take on the happy and the hurt, come what may. His attention and love were undivided, and mine for the taking. I try to explain this to him, but fail. Dating in LA is hard, he says. Everyone is looking for something better. But you'll be ok. I want so much for you to be happy, El.

Another music change. Youth Lagoon. I'm sleepy. I'm drifting. He tries to pull me back in. I know what he wants. My mind wants it, too, but my body is maxed out. I can't, I say. I'm sorry. I'm so tired. Holding me close. But the music expands, reaches out to me. The songs I love most pull me back to the moment: Posters, Daydream. I shift positions, I feel his need.

I whisper in the flickering light. What do you need?

No, it's ok. We shouldn't...

What do you need...? I reach out, touch him, answer my own question. His sighs. I've always loved his sighs. Rewards for piecing the puzzle together correctly. This. You need this. And this...

---

Something to hold. Something to know. Something to believe. Something that is sure and true and won't change. You are a beautiful person who changed my life forever, and for the better. We aren't right for one another, and we know it, but you are an oasis in the desert that is sometimes my life, and I'm one in yours.

No one was hurt. No betrayals, no infidelities, no lies. I have no one special in my life, and neither does he.

Friends. Bodies. Comfort. Love, of a kind. Serotonin. St. Patrick's Day, 2013.

It's all okay.

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