Thursday, June 25, 2009

Floating (Thanksgiving, 2005)


It was Thursday all day and there I was, alone in the dark again, shuffling malice, regret, and Love in my mind. Dissecting defeat, desiccating deliverance. These months, some of the worst of this, my 7th life.
Day meant to be ours, she give it away to devils due to fear.
On the phone for eight hours, she did penance. In the process, Friday rose and I had to go, if only for The Queen’s embrace, well worth the wait of a thousand days without.
7th Ave. – our old stomping grounds. Booze shop stop – Pennsylvania Dutch Egg Nog or South African red? Opted for Dominican Rum – 40 proof.
Rang the bell. It rang back. There on the stairs was one of Them, always the first face I see, soothe my savage with a smile and a “Hey…”
(Note to self: marry a Texan.)
Next was The Queen Herself, followed by Princess Allison, sans tutu.
Three elegant ladies vibe voluminous incandescence.
I shook Jeff’s hand and thought, “I don’t belong here; these are happy people.”
Stay with me was the private incantation to prayer. Stay with me.
I looked at their faces, ferociously beautiful faces of Friends. Comfort. Secretly savoured their scents.
My metal walls melted.
Having neither slept nor moshed, mine eyes dilated after a half glass of ale. Three flutes of fine red followed, on the heels of which flew back some of that fun Rum.
The Queen, she eyed me and I threw her some facts, fending off a felonious urge to purge. It would have sufficed to sit and stare at those ever-simmering eyes, but others might have disapproved.
Jeff carved the turkey.
Yes, there was food. Like fooooooooodd food (Thursday’s Thanksgiving supper consisted of Quicktime chocolate chip cookie crumbs and a call that never came).
Women I’d never witnessed welcomed me warmly, offered to fastidiously fill my plate for free.
After supper, spotting an empty seat, ring of sirens surrounding, I craved in, met their specifications and was granted holy green Grace.
Effortless smiles. No pointless power plays.
Time flew and I floated through mellifluously. No subjugation.
I felt humane and unthugged.
Reviving my fell faith if for a few days.
There were desserts and I can’t even get into it (friends and family called a moratorium on continuous discussions of The Friday Feast at Allison’s).
She showed, eyes shimmering, by 11pm. My Sweetie. I was happy to see her. Verily. Her constant glances said much the same. As did the sporadic hand squeezes.
Without them – those nefarious, ne’er-do-well-by-her acquaintances – we are Transcendent.
Heart filled with effusive Love, we hug our goodbyes and I invite her over.
Getting home something like Jay Cronley satire. No 7 service to Queens. No R, E, N, V or W. Lose my temper briefly before she finds it, picking it up off the floor, dusting it off and handing it back to me with another hand squeeze.
I grant her small, damp kisses on the forehead and she swoons. We kiss in earnest and manage to make the 3:22 train, though not before snarfing some soup.
Three hours to get home but worth it when we get there and slip slowly into syrup, tiny rich kisses give way to what we want, who we are, us two, long time coming after so much struggle.
“I Love You.”
Together, we f l o w and it almost cums, but not quite – her First One Ever, a biggun, downright Wagnerian.
We didn’t stop there, but I will.
We get half-hour sleep before she scuttles off to stage manage and I go to her show that evening wearing Armani.
She beamed. I was proud. As always.
A major coup occurred when we caught a 10:22. We ordered Chinese and smiled a lot. We made out, then made Love, it of the earth-rattling variety (neighbors took brooms to ceilings).
Monday comes and as I’m mic’ing Adrien Brody, a thousand shimmery beads like Seagal on his chest, it occurs to me: something shiny is in order, a diamond perhaps.
She calls as I’m punching out and tells me ten of a hundred, one of which was, “I’m leaving New York.”

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