Thursday, May 13, 2004

Pure Delight and yet…

The misfit was at my door soon after and I greeted him happily with a kiss on the mouth, inviting butterflies. He have me a birthday card and a cd he made for me. I’ve been listening to the cd since I woke up and it’s made me smile, laugh really loud, and cry.
The card said he was happy I was in his life, that he was lucky to be with my on my birthday, that there is no one else in the world like me and that I shouldn’t doubt how special I am to him.

Ditto baby…. A million times over ditto.

We decided to go into the city because we don’t spend enough time in Manhattan.
On the ride over the Williamsburg Bridge I confessed that I had dinner with the Prince of Bushwick and that he had invited me over and that I declined because I wanted to be with him, the misfit. I wanted him to know that I made a choice. The misfit admitted to knowing I was with a man because I didn’t say I was going to be with the fea. He seemed pretty amazed that I could have a civil relationship with an ex. He said he couldn’t imagine spending a birthday dinner with his ex.

We settled into an outdoor lounge that seemed to be filled with more hipsters then Williamsburg. We ordered mojitos after waiting forever to get the waitress to acknowledge us. He looked so hot with this brown button down and his sexy glasses. He seems to favor brown. I took a few pics of him with my digital camera. I could look at him forever and want to.

He said I looked sad. The Prince of Bushwick said the same thing. I admitted being sad to my misfit. I was so delighted (his favorite word) to be with him and so sad dwelling on the lack of possibility he had planted in my heart in our earlier conversation.

I told him how I couldn’t just date him. How it was impossible because of the type of person he was, because of his creative, sensitive soul. All his issues are what make him real, human and all the more beautiful to me. There is nothing false or disguised. He is pure vulnerable nudity and open wound wanting to heal yet begging to be kissed. He is so much like me.

After two drinks I was done. We walked back to the car talking about Latino playwriting. In the car I took off my shoes and put my bare legs up on the dash. He accepted the unspoken invitation and touched me. The ride home he tried to teach me the words to the Nelly Furtado and Juanes song Fotografia so we could sing the duet together loudly. I was too drunk and tired to absorb the words. Once in front of my back door, where he always picks me up and leaves me, I unbuckled my seat belt and rested my head in his lap.
It feels so safe there, on him, in his car. I could live in that one spot, in that one position; forever listening to the music he plays and be happy. We kiss, make out. He walks me to the door. We kiss, make out some more. I moan when our mouths are together, I can’t help it.

I slept so well.

Today he tells me he wishes he were superficial, that it would be easier, nicer.
And I’m sad again. For him. For me. For us.

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