The conversation begins as a
happy accident, like a newly
burgeoning relationship that’ll
blissfully last for years to come
(except when one chases the
raw-eyed other from the
warmer end of a jointly
leased studio apartment
to the other, back and
also forth for a good
long time, all the while
beating his head with a
broomstick). I finally got
the nerve to ask (yet and
again) if he thought we
could “move forward.”
And he said
yes. Yes.
I was dumbfounded (and this
was back when dumbfounded
was cheap and easy, which
was either 1991 or
the day before yesterday).
So he came
to my place and we
spent a lovely night,
highlighted by a
long set of soft
slow kisses both
nearly but not quite
climaxing. The
next day—
well, morning,
our beloved other’s
furtive fingernails
jostling around within
our very own unique
intermittent “can’t-make-up-
its-mind-what-to-hold-on-to”
grasps, we skitter dizzily,
each and as one,
to Jamba Juice for Orange Dream Machine.
