Stories of Greg

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.

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.

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.

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.