simple complex spirals written in red on paper napkins

Wed. The 28th. My birthday is less then 4 months away.
Hi, I’ve seen you before. Across the ballroom I could feel you stare at me. But I only felt it in hindsight. I didn’t notice because I distracted by my 2 years of anxiety and worry and heartbreak that fill this ballroom. Past history can take you out of enjoying your present moment.
Stacey introduced us, because you were staring at me. When I looked at you I felt a rush of dopamine, a surge of pheromone . "lorraine this is Roy." "I know you from somewhere Roy?" "Oh in Band and Djed at Century?" “No that can’t be it…" Well maybe.." Umm mystery.

I’ve meet you before I can feel it. When I looked at you I felt a rush of dopamine, a surge of pheromone. My favorite chemical dependency. An intoxicating biological connection of histamines or pheromones clicking into reactive gear. I felt dissected by your eye contact. Held a little longer than social norms allow for those not intimately involved. “I’d let you hug me one more time, but I don’t know you. Although I’m sure you’d like to touch my fuzzy red coat again.”

I’m sorry though, I’m not available. Even though he’s gone and left me. I’m just not. I wish I was. I wish I was. Nothing is gonna change my world.

There must be a song that doesn’t remind me of him. There must be.

Thurs. We share a birthday. Ours and today it’s Jesse’s 90th.

Hi Aaron, nice to meet you. A friend of Roy’s?
Hi Roy, nice to meet you again. Thanks for coming. Have some candy corn and dance with me. No Chocolate? No Wine? No sticky cheese. No cigarettes? Have a vodka? Have an absinthe. I’ll make it for you. And after I did you enjoy it, and I like that you do, secretly knowing there are not many times a man likes something I’ve made. So I relish in this some.
I’ll see you soon. I’m sorry I’m not available. I’m just not. I wish I was. Nothing is gonna change my world. Well I might waiver a little. Since you’re so handsome and clever and since my basic biology surges when you’re near.

Fri. Sun Liquor and play me some music. You played me a song that didn’t remind me of someone old. This is something new.
You’re a philosopher I’ve discovered. You never know. You kissed me. You asked if you could. You: “May I kiss you?” me: “Would you like to have a philosophical conversation about it?”
Maybe something is gonna change my world.

Saturday. Halloween. I’m complicated by others being here that know my ex. Forgive me for being stand-off-ish. I wish I could explain. I can’t as I can’t even explain it to myself. I hope I don’t offend you. I want you near but I can’t with these people here.

But I find you intoxicating. And your incredibly cute as Joey Ramone in skinny jeans.

Tuesday. The Little Red Hen, a failed Sidecar. We bonded over Aaron’s female dilemmas and what I know how to work best: friendship with women. You danced with me. To a song that didn’t remind me of something old. It can now remind me of you.

We frolicked over cheese almonds apples and absinthe in the chaise lounge built for one, best used by two who like eachother. Us two. You talked. I took off my dress in a sober moment. We frolicked innocently but apprehensively under Audrey Hepburn. In a beret, a scarf, black panties and vintage 1940’s red platforms with a peep toe. You stayed with me until I had to work. But I want you to go. I’m freaked.

Friday. Your Combo. Victory. Lounge.
My first. You had me at Howdy folks. You’re a performer. You’re good. Wow you really are good. You can sing, and they love it. I love it. I expected no less though. You kissed my neck in front of your entire group of something old, and my something new. The only way I could do it. I’m amazed you can.

I stayed. You played me the Beatles we laughed and didn’t sleep. My hair was a mess. I was intoxicated with lust and connection, something just touchable and within reach. It became Saturday. We read the Seattle Weekly and you’re in it and you’re a deserving star and I’m star struck.

Ripped slip, wool stockings and 80 year old gold heels on donation. You’re a man I know now. You wanted to stay but I’m a little freaked, so I make you leave. My gut tells me you will freak too if I don’t make you leave. I know you like it better this way. The New Orleans Bump. And a cigarette.

Phone: it’s fortunate that we both like black panties with white trim. But I wanted you to leave. I’m tired. And don’t trust myself. Plus I don’t want you to freak. But I’m insane with lust. Maybe something is gonna change my world.

Sunday. I’m insane with lust and sick with apprehension. You write me explanations of simple complex spirals in red on paper dinner napkins. I fall a little more with your metaphors and meaningless. You tell me you freaked. I know I really do.

Let’s not kiss please. This is already breaking me. Diatribe. “When two people both feel the connection and passion, that’s just rare! Rare! Sometimes one feels it and the other doesn’t. That happens often enough. But when you both get it, that’s rare.” Btw, I’ve heard this before.

You looked me in the eye, over candlelight for five minutes straight. FIve minutes over three candle lights.Held so long we are officially intimately involved, even if not crossing physical boundaries, and even if not saying so. I felt looked at. Thoroughly looked through. I’m just beginning to understand. I get it: you’re intense and painful and full of apprehension and tension and lack of counterbalalnce. You pull away. I pull away. I can feel it from here.

simple complex spirals written in red on paper napkins