* * * * *

“I feel like I’m moving home,” I said to C, calling him during one of my late-night drives home.  I had just decided that I would be moving back to Seattle.  “It’s like there is this huge burden being lifted off of me.”

* * * * *

The ferry glided across the bay, the dark water looking like it hadn’t even been touched.  We drove 45 minutes from the east side to the west, not a word spoken, just the music playing.  There was nothing uncomfortable about it, though it may have been the soundtrack for the joyride.  Does the silence between two people get easier the older we get?  It sure seems so, sometimes.  That, or we learn to ignore the elephant more adeptly.

* * * * *

What else am I ignoring, I ask myself sometimes.  I’m home, and that is all that matters.

* * * * * 

Seattle.  I stayed up all night, hoping it would make me tired enough to sleep on the plane.  I looked the room over, just sitting there in my chair, trying to memorize every detail of it, regardless of how sparse it was.  The bed, the chair, the desk…yes, the desk.  Love.  Etched, in numerous languages, in the glass top.  It was me.

“Oh, look at this one,” C said, in the way he does when he subtly gets excited about something.  “It’s all you.”  Not many people know me that well, but for once, I was glad someone did.

I stood in the bathroom, staring in the mirror.  “I still have time to change my mind,” I kept thinking, holding back the tears.  Behind the tears, the words spoken to me only the day before kept running in circles – “Don’t change your plans for boys.  They only hurt you.”  I booked my flight the minute that conversation ended.

* * * * *

Why is it that grey areas tend to define everything?

“I know we’re in a grey area, and we probably will be for a while.”  -S

And when the grey area is covered in it’s own shade of black and white, making it even more gloomy than it already is, you get me, now.  The fist needs to be pulled from my stomach, the butterflies need to settle, my mind needs to sleep.

For so long, I thought I was OK.  Then he came along.  And now?  I’m not so sure; I didn’t look back as I left the room to let myself find out.

* * * * *

It’s the  butterflies.  At home…at work…in the car…in the coffee shop.  Right now, sitting across from him.  Does their fluttering equate hope for the hopeless romantics?  The possibilities of things to come?  The anxieties of things that might never be? 

* * * * *

All I could so was slightly shake my head no as he commented on how beautiful I was.  Maybe there, in that filtered light, I was.  Maybe here, in the broad daylight, under track lighting, I am.  As he said it last night, his fingers gliding across my skin as I sat atop him, my body shivering from his touch, I realized that it doesn’t matter how much I disagree, someone else’s answer will always be in the affirmative, so I stop conjecturing.  As they say, it’s all in the eye of the beholder, or something like that.

* * * * *

I fell asleep last night with an arm around me, a body against my back, secure.  While the world ushered in a new year, full of hope and possibilities, I laid there, wondering what is in store for me.  I recalled that a year ago, on that same night, I was sitting on a couch, in a room full of people, wishing I was anywhere but.  Last night, I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

* * * * *

hope
noun
a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen; a person or thing that may help or save someone; grounds for believing that something good may happen 

“What,” I asked, looking at him.  No answer.  I turned back to the wall, cradled in the nook of his body.  The spot he said only moments ago that I fit perfectly into.

* * * * * 

“You’re beautiful.”

“You flatter me,” I answered, straddled atop him, both of us in various states of undress.  “I thought you were cute the first time I saw you.”

“Just cute?  Not handsome or something?”

“Striking!” I grinned.  A small chuckle erupted from both of us and I fell back onto his chest.

* * * * *

“Stay the night with me.”

“I can’t.  I have to go home.  I have no work clothes for in the morning.”

“Take the walk of shame,” he said, with a playful smile.  All I could do was laugh.

“Will I see you again?”

I paused, not in thought, but to savor the question.  “I’m sure you will.”

* * * * *

With the voice of Christine Daae as inspiration, yes…you will.

Nothing had changed. 

I went straight from the airplane to the baggage claim, past the conveyor belt, knowing the luggage would take a little while to make its way to the weary passengers, outside.  I fumbled around in my pocket for a lighter, recalling the one I had somehow gotten through security with back in Seattle and covertly ditched in a trashcan.  I needed it now.  No one was around to ask for a light, so I sat on the bench.  It was unusually calm for an afternoon at an airport, just a random taxi here and there and the occasional bus.  The only evident thing was the humidity hanging heavy, like it had always done, like I had claimed to miss only the day before.  I was weary of it already. 

A smart person would have removed any overcoat already, but not me.  My gray zip-up was my shell.  It was holding everything inside, keeping me together.  It was my last semblance of Seattle.  I felt that the moment I removed it, everything would come crumbling down, the emotions I was keeping in check.  Most important was the regret that I had shoved in the pocket…it needed to stay there for a while, at least.  

* * * * *

“Do you remember anything from last night,” he asked me.

“No.”  I lied.  I remembered everything I said, but didn’t want to admit it, knowing that the things I said stung him.  It was too early to be feeling remorse.

* * * * *

“I’ll make it up to you, and I’m sorry I messed up.  I’m not perfect.”
“No one is.” 

It was cold in your room, but your body kept me warm beneath the covers.  I laid there, wide awake, for hours after you had fallen asleep, but never uncomfortable.  I was at ease.  All I can think of is when I will be invited back.  But you confuse me.

It scares me.

* * * * *

The scene plays out in my head over and over.  I’m there, walking through the crowd, and then I see him, standing in front of me.  Just like in the movies, everything stands still.  The first words that come out of my  mouth…

“Let’s get out of here.”  “I’m sorry.”  “I’ve been looking for you.”

They all sound good, in theory.

* * * * *

I lost my gray zip-up.  Slowly, but surely, pieces are chipping off and little jets of my inner self are seeping out.  I’m scared.

A year is coming up…and the feelings are coming back already.  Did I miss my fate?

I saw him on the other side of the bar where he looked me directly in the eyes, then turned away.  I watched him as I made my way to where he was.

Our eyes locked again, this time no looking away.  Water.  I maneuvered myself between him and another person at the bar, asking for something to cool me off.

“I’m Jason.”

“I’m _____.” 

A step closer, then another.  His face, his lips, his goatee…all getting closer to my own face.  Then our lips touched…

I pulled away.

“Thanks for that,” he said.  More gazing at each other, this time his hand having found the way to my bare chest.  His fingers glided across my abdomen; grazed my skin, bringing the goosebumps out of hiding.

“You want more,” I asked.  No reply, just a kiss; my back against the bar.

“Can I have your number,” I heard whispered into my ear.

“Why?  You’ll never call; they never call.”

“Who never calls?  I don’t?”

“Not just you.  People never call when they are given a number.”

“I will.”  We grinned, simultaneously.  He moved back in, his leg on the pedestal, so that mine was pressed against him.  His fingers found my skin again.  That was permission for my hands to do the same.  They found the bottom of his shirt, lifting it up just enough to get a teasing feel of his body.  I ran my finger along his belt line, dipping below just a little, teasing him, and myself.

And another kiss.  My hand on his neck; his mouth on my neck – my weak spot.  His lips on one side, his fingers on the other, caressing.  I allowed myself to do the same, taste his neck.  It was exhilarating.

I pulled back again, looking him in the eyes.  I moved in closer, “You want to get out of here?”

“I gotta go home in a little while.”  Grins, again.

“How long before you have to be home,” I asked.  His reply was a stare and a grin.  “You live alone,” I asked.  A nod of his head indicated no.  “I can get a hotel room,” I replied back.  Another shaking of the head.

And then we kissed again.  He found my neck again, like he never lost it; his hand grabbed my leg and held it, his other hand behind me pulling me closer to me.  I pulled away, staring at the devil in disguise, loving every second.

“Well, I’m gonna go,” I said.  Again, he shook his head.  “You still want my number?”

“Yeah.”

I started walking to the exit, holding his hand the entire way, only letting go when I got too far ahead.  A purple piece of paper, in black ink, my number was given to him.

“Thank you, Jason.”  He held the piece of paper in both hands, like it meant everything to him.  I walked out the door.

* * * * *

If this be my last night on earth 
Let me remember this for all that it’s worth.
-Moby, “Last Night” 

* * * * *

It shook me to the core.  That’s all it took: two words.

A: I’d like to.

* * * * *

I do.

Is Serendipity playing a game with my by sending to me in a roundabout way what I ran from?

Time, as usual, will tell.