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I rode in on the bus this morning listening to a mix CD that Bison made for me. One of the songs, "Steal My Kisses" by Ben Harper, just makes me smile. Not sure why exactly, but it�s joined the list of songs that make me feel good, just by virtue of being on. There aren�t many. The last one, I think, was "Son of a Preacher Man" by Dusty Springfield. It was the source of what my friend Adam likes to call a Moment of Complete and Unadulterated Non-Terseness.
Adam, Scott, Melissa, the Artboy and I had been at the Brendan Behan Pub, a quick walk from the house, for most of the evening. It was a Tuesday night, but we were being Beer Vikings, so it didn�t matter. By the time we got home, Adam and I were starving, and made a huge plate of nachos, despite the late hour. When we�d finished eating, Adam went into the living room, put the Pulp Fiction soundtrack on the stereo, and came out to clean up.
Dusty�s voice filled the first floor of the house. We danced the dishes into the dishwasher and then just danced around each other. The song ended, and someone hit the repeat button. I think it played through five or six times. We just kept dancing. Adam and me. Scott and Melissa. Melissa and the Artboy. The Artboy and me. Scott and Adam. It didn�t seem to matter. We were just happy.
Finally, the reality of the clock chiming at 2:30 intruded on our moment, and we said our goodnights. The Artboy wrapped his arms around my waist and carried me to bed. We both fell asleep smiling.
When I listen to this Ben Harper song, if I close my eyes, I can see all of us dancing again in the kitchen. I can feel the Artboy behind me. I can hear Melissa�s laugh, Adam�s voice. I am dancing to this different song, in a different time, in a place I though for a long time would be home forever.
But we did not dance to this song. That particular group of people will never dance together to this song. The images I see in my head are all imagined, created out of shadows of other experiences, another lifetime. I will never be there. Melissa is dead. The house has been sold. Other people, strangers, dance in the kitchen now. And the Artboy�the Artboy is not my future.
That�s the hardest part, I think. For so long, I believed my tomorrows were all tied up with his tomorrows. If I hadn�t believed that, I certainly would never have stuck it out through all the bad nights. I truly thought he was my forever. It�s hard now, sometimes, to believe that isn�t true. Moving away from him-as-my-life meant restructuring everything I had.
Occasionally, though, I get caught in a shadow, and it feels, just for a moment, like this is the alternate, the not-real, the pretend, the imagined. I�m sure I will open my eyes and find the Artboy in front of me, wanting to show me his new sculpture, or go for a ride to some suburban chain restaurant just to escape the city, or lay on the futon in his inner-city bedroom and listen to the sounds of the traffic, or any of the other things that were my reality.
Then my mind comes into focus, and I realize that instead, I get the Boyfriend, wanting to look at bathtubs, or eat some Thai food, or take a trip somewhere, or sit in the hammock and count the few stars that show above the city. My new reality is a good place to be.
It�s just that sometimes, it�s a surprise.
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