I had not showered since Thursday, and it was not the good kind of dirty. That kind of dirty when I've been sleeping on the floor, or the surrounding smoke has fuzzed the tips, or I've had bad coffee and leaned my head up against a gritty wall - not that kind. Just straight dirty.
I biked there, it was about seven in the morning. And I realized how much I missed the early air. That teenage escapism of the morning, the morning after the night. The secret I shared with the poor men who awoke at 4 a.m. to deliver the paper to the residents of Whitefish Bay, residents who leave their bikes safely parked in their driveway. The secrets with the birds, who have just woken up. I whisper to them "Quiet little birds, please let me have a little more night." But of course they don't care what the hell I have to say about their morning.
The black trees against the sky form the patterns of youth and although you haven't slept you feel awake. The bike from his house to mine was never too long. I shouldn't say never - those times when my parents say I must be home at midnight but I don't care because five more minutes with him is worth being yelled at for. So I would stretch out the goodbye, squeeze in an extra kiss, or six, and then arrive home at 12:03 with no breath, racing my own mind down the streets and up the hills. I would glimpse the lake, early, in the morning the ride was slowly awesome.
Anyway, the day passed. I pulled two perfectly good bouquets of flowers out of the trash and stuck them in my bike basket. They jutted out as I biked home. When I reached my street I found a squirrel.
It was dead, in the center of my street. I circled it on my bike, over and over, until my mind felt felt like when you're sick and thirst claws but your body is weak and you imagine getting up and moving to the sink so many times you think you have. I circled this squirrel a lot. It had not been run over - it was whole, with its gentle little paws curled under it's damp and feathery breast. It's black eye was open, almost a slit. How was it so whole, so completely perfect? Had it just up an died in the middle of the street? I circled, I circled, and then I headed home.
Once, when I was going to his house in the middle of the night, I found a pidgin with no head. It had a tag on it's foot, but it had no head. I was scared, and biked more quickly. It died under a sign, by the Catholic school, that said - "Parents - help keep drugs out of Whitefish Bay." It was misty that night, creepy - I was happy when I arrived in his room.
We watched T.V., then fell asleep around 3, as usual. I slept for an hour, then tried to drag my bones out of his bed while my phone alarm chimed. I got on my bike, covered with dew, and biked home in the peering light. The sun was teetering on the edge of the lake. I re-entered my house.
I slept, but my eyes sill fuzzed in and out in front of the computer screen. One more night of scanning. Staying out was driving me crazy.
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