But I Take My Time

Brown was completely pervasive. The carpets wild pattern, the musty smell of pot and cigarettes eaten up by the fake fire burning in the corner, the out of tune piano, the hulking base that was being joyously strummed - all brown. James smirked wild as the whisky tipped into his face, his stringy hair revealing that he had taken to eating prescription pills alone in his bathroom.

I ventured to dance, setting out alone in the small place and waiting for others to follow. They didn't, but my arms waved more wildly and my hair seems to know that in front of my face was the best place to be, shielding me from eyes I had not seen.

James strung himself up and swayed next to me, his bottle clutched against his skinny self, out of beat with the music. I always knew the correct beat, nine years of wearing tights and hairspray caused an internal sense of rhythm never erased.

The remains of James' childhood smirked out the corners of his mouth as if it could not believe the future. This curiousness was revealing, his laugh remained intact, and directed at me.

"What do you think of me" I ventured, tipping closer to him.

"You're fucking goofy"

I nodded and turned

"If you ever want to get drunk at a party, bring your own whisky. No one likes whisky" he lectured, taking a swig

"neither do you," I told him, "it's simply coffee and cigarettes, what you don't like at first but then force yourself to and before long you can't have life without it"

I remember almost crying, I remember the way the fire ate nothing but burned and burned, I remember the floor, cold, the car cold. The dancing found us all in a pile, blankets magically appeared. The night was navy, November, and the sick sleeping feeling persisted.

We all watched the sun rise. We all almost cried, but the hour of waiting in the stiffness of early morning caused our tears to slip up our noses and into our stomachs. Hunting season had started, and the quiet was pierced with black bullet shots in the distance. It was too profound for any of us to grasp, and Ned had forgotten his camera, so we could not endlessly recall the moment at later dates when we though we had discovered what the moment meant.

Bagels, coffee, and cigarettes were in order. The morning had peaked, and now we were no longer mystical, but a few hungover teens. I was wearing my long underwear at breakfast. I left while the others smoked and nested in the back of Evan's car, next to a broken VCR and a poster of Bob Dylan. The seats were down, there was a thin flannel blanket that my smoke- drenched head rested on.

I rode in the back seat with my stomach sideways and my body hugging my long underwear.

I got home, sat on my floor naked, and ate a green apple, my favorite kind.

It was November.

And I met you there, among people who's significance I could only guess.