I've finally decided to post this. It's a couple months old, mostly non-fictional (there are a few poetic embellishments), and it comes right from my heart. But someone finally told me to post it, so I am. Also keep in mind it has no ending, because the story isn't over yet.

So we begin....


its 3 in the afternoon by the time we finally get around to drinking. i?m behind the
bar, going through the liquor cabinet, and she?s trying to get comfortable on the couch. i
pull out a bottle of smirnoff vodka and some blue curacao, wander to the kitchen for a can
of diet sprite and two glasses filled with ice. mix a shot of vodka, two capfuls of curacao,
and some sprite. i motion her over to taste my creation. she sips delicately and makes a
face. ?too much nutrasweet. don?t you have anything in the house that?s not diet??

my parents have been on a health kick lately, and you won?t find anything in our
house that?s not low cal, low fat, and high fiber. however, they?ve forgotten about the
bottle of 7 up that?s sitting unopened under the bar. i present it to her with a flourish and
she snatches it, filling the rest of her glass with the soda until it fizzes over. taking the
bottle back, i do the same. laugh and grab a couple napkins, hand her one. she returns to
the couch.

the bar?s between us and i stare at her from across the one and a half feet of
formica countertop. she?s not really paying attention to me, more interested in settling
herself into the pillows. and as i watch her, a strange feeling of detachment overwhelms
me. not quite a part of her world, but all too much real for her. real people are
complicated, and they can hurt you, and they can break you, and so its easier to keep the
bar between us.

but i love her too much to make it easy for her.

i take my drink and move to the floor in front of the tv, my back against the coffee
table, legs tucked underneath me. i figure i would meet up with the floor eventually, so i
might as well start there. ?you ready for this?? i turn my head and look at her face.
unreadable, but something?s there. still, she nods.

?yeah. although i swore i wouldn?t get drunk ?til i was 21 with joanna.? joanna,
her best friend, and the name is coupled with a pang of jealousy. its stupid, i know, but
sometimes, love makes you stupid.

?awright, here we go.? i push the play button and the opening song of shoujo
kakumei utena flashes across the screen. we share a mutual obsession with this japanese
anime that borders on psychotic. she lusts over the red-haired bishounen and i enjoy the
orange blonde lesbian. we?ve watched all the episodes several times before, but not while
drinking.

10 minutes into the first episode and our drinks are more than halfway gone. it
dawns on me that perhaps playing the utena drinking game was not the best idea. i can
feel the prickling of the alcohol in my brain, a slight fuzziness to the edges of the room. a
few minutes later i get up and stumble to the bar to make us two more drinks, telling her
to keep count of how many sips we?ll miss. ice, vodka, curucao, 7 up, stir. simple
instructions, i take it slow, and i make it back to the living room without a problem.

she?s moved to the floor and i place the drinks on the table before gracefully falling
down next to her.

?17,? she states decisively.

looking at my drink, i realize that i might as well just take a shot of vodka instead.
?let?s both take a shot and call it even.?

she quivers slightly, protesting, ?but i don?t like the taste of vodka.? i pour a shot
glass full of the clear alcohol, hold it out to her, not forcing, just waiting. when she
doesn?t take it, i shrug and toss it back myself. it burns all the way down, astringent and
sharp. from my throat to my stomach, all i feel is fire. i grimace, shudder, and wait for the
burning sensation to fade.

i shake my head to clear it and say, ?its not so bad.? offering her the empty glass,
she eyes it warily. ?you don?t need to do a full shot. and the longer you don?t take one,
the more of that,? a motion to her untouched drink, ?you?ll have to sip.?

eyeing the shot glass again, she takes it carefully and pours herself almost a full
shot. a deep breath, she raises it to her lips, and then she downs it. she gasps in shock as
the alcohol works through her system. a large gulp of 7 up quickly follows. ?i?m never
doing that again,? she declares finally. i simply nod and turn back to the television.

* * *

i find myself behind the bar again, making our third drinks. ?do you wanna try
sumpthin? new??

?what else have you got under there?? i squat down and rummage under the bar,
lifting up bottle after glass bottle of alcohol, naming them off as i go.

?everything. rum, tequila, whiskey, whiskey, more whiskey...?

?well, i can see what yer dad likes.? its true, what she says. my dad won?t drink
anything but margaritas or jack daniels and 7 up. diet, of course, to cut down on his sugar
and calorie intake. i think its pointless.

?kahlua, bailey?s, rum, gin, some other kinda vodka, russian, i think, margarita
mix, tequila, and more whiskey.?

?how about a gin and tonic??

?sounds good to me.? i lift out the heavy bottle of gin and a bottle of tonic water.
more ice, a shot of gin, a splash of lime juice, the rest tonic and 7 up. back on the couch,
she?s munching on trail mix and slices of white bread. we?re both more than a little drunk
by this point. 3 shots of vodka running through my veins, nearly the same running through
hers. maybe we?re ready to finish the conversation we didn?t have last night.

* * *

it is almost 1 in the morning by the time i work up enough courage to tell her. i
have been fidgeting all night, so oblivious to everything except those three little words that
i don?t even notice my muscles are tense until i try to relax them. i bite at another
fingernail to calm myself. i flip through the tv channels like a maniac. i even try to
concentrate on one of the books she brought me. but still the words refuse to work past
the lump in my throat.

i get up from the couch, blanket trailing after me like the train of a dress, and pad
into the kitchen. search the desktop for a pencil and paper. finding both, i return to the
couch. with an almost steady hand, i start to write.

?okay, so the nervousness is killing me slowly, and i?m too chicken to say it, i?m
too afraid of what may happen if i do and so i?ve gone the past few months saying
nothing except for a few hints here and there, and all i?m doing is rambling now...?

?what?re you writing?? she watches me inquisitively. i hold up my left hand,
motioning her to give me another minute, as i continue to scribble madly with my right.

?...and it?s taken me this long to put it down into writing, and who knows how
long to actually say it, although i want to with every fiber of my being, but the fear keeps
holding me back, y?see, so i?ll write it for now.

?i love you, susan. and i think you already know that, but we?ve just not
acknowledged it or talked about it or mentioned it, i tried to once, but never got around
to saying the important stuff, the longer i put this off, the harder and more awkward it
will become, so i wrote it, and now maybe i can say it. or maybe not, but maybe if i can
give this to you, you would understand.?

i rip the piece of paper of its pad and thrust it towards her. she takes it and begins
to read. as she reads my confession, i continue writing. its mostly nonsense to keep me
from running out of the room until she?s finished. her eyes look up when she?s done and
before i know it, i?m babbling.

?i?ve wanted to tell you for a while, but i was too scared to do it until tim kicked
me in the ass and gave me a deadline and if i didn?t tell you soon, he would?ve done it for
me. so its all his fault.?

?how long did you have??

??til the end of the month.?

?wow.?

?yeah, not a whole lot of time there, so like i said, its all his fault. and i just wish i
knew a better way to tell you, but this is the best i can do.?

silence then. the urge to pass out is tempting. the room is spinning, my heart is
either beating much too fast or not at all, and i can?t be sure if i?m breathing anymore.
lightheaded, dizzy, adrenaline rushing through my body, my only thought is ?i?m too
young to die.?

?why were you scared?,? she says after a moment. i don?t answer. even if i
wanted to, i don?t think i can. and then, ?well, i don?t have anything to say.?

?that?s it?? i?m screaming inside ?that?s all you can say to me. i pour out my heart
to you and you can?t think of anything to say. i put myself out there and you can?t do the
same. this isn?t something you can brush aside, dammit. why don?t you say you love me??

but if i said that, i know i would scare her away. i need to treat this like a finely
spun piece of glass. one wrong move and its over. so instead, ?i understand. it?s okay.?

but it really isn?t.

* * *

i set the drinks down, managing to only spill a little on the table. i feel like i?m
touching everything through thick woolen mittens and my fingers refuse to work properly.
aiming for the other couch, i miss and instead land on the floor between it and the coffee
table. i reach my arms behind me, elbows bent, palms on the couch, and pull myself up.
sink back into the cushions. go back to watching the show.

but my eyes aren?t focusing on the tv anymore. they?re focusing on her. this is the
real show. and one i don?t plan on missing a second of.

the phone rings. i stand up reluctantly, swaying on my feet, grabbing the couch
arm for support. following the sound of the ringing, i find it on the kitchen counter. press
the ?talk? button and put it to my ear, wedging it between my cheek and shoulder.
?hello??

?hi, jen. this is ginny. i got yer messages.? it is soft, quiet, sad. a melancholy
something seeps into her voice before being hidden away again. i would do anything at
that moment to give her a hug. i find the effect sobering.

ginny speaks to me for a minute or two, explaining that she can?t come over and
join us. no matter how many times i ask ?what?s wrong??, i never get an answer. just that
same soft, quiet, sad voice trying to convince me that everything is okay. finally, i hand
the phone over to her, not trusting my ability to hold a serious conversation.

i collapse back onto my couch. she?s more coherent than i, or at least she seems
that way. but i guess not even she can get an answer from ginny. after a few long
moments, she says good bye, sighs, hangs up the phone, places it on the coffee table.

?do we know what?s wrong with her?? i ask, trying not to stare at her too intently.

she shrugs, and i watch her shoulders. up and down, and wriggling into the couch
next to mine, and i turn back to television. it hasn?t missed my notice that she?s not sitting
beside me. something has always been between us. a comfort zone to keep me from
getting too close to a truth she can?t even admit to herself yet. hell, it?s probably best that
she chose the other couch. the space between us is...

it?s space.

and way too much of it.

?no idea.? she interrupts my thoughts and i return back to the matter at hand.
ginny. what?s wrong with ginny.

?she?s seems really closed off lately,? i muse just a tad bit drunkenly. ?its hard to
get her out of the house to do stuff. and its only slightly less difficult to get her on the
phone. its like pulling teeth to get her to talk about anything that?s bothering her.?

?maybe she?s getting tired of us.?

?i dunno, hon. but i wish i knew.? my gin and tonic tempts me. its not the best
tasting thing in the world, but it will keep me from thinking too much. feeling too much. i
want the numbness to seep into every part of my body. so i breathe deep and gulp down
the drink as fast as i can without choking.

perhaps this way it won?t hurt as much if she says ?no?.

* * *

she follows me upstairs. into my room. onto my bed. i lock the door behind me.
my dad could be home at any time and i don?t even want to entertain the idea that he
might catch us totally wasted. putting in the second utena tape, i then lay down next to
her, wrapping my right arm around her midsection, my cheek resting on her shoulder, my
legs pressed against hers.

her face is turned towards the tv, and so i take the chance to study it this close up.
she has such an adult face. dark eyes that carry a depth and breadth of great pain and
great sorrow. faintest lines near her mouth, dark blue-black circles under her eyes. olive
skin that?s never been tanned. a dark thick wave of hair, untamable by even her best
efforts. attractive despite the age and wear and tear. the emotional damage more visible
than any physical scarring.

you can see she?s lived through a lot.

she starts talking about touga, her red-headed bishounen. her ?pretty boy.? how
much she loves him. how much she would give to have him.

but i?m not listening to her. her words are meaningless. words can lie. words can
wound. words can hide. i?ve stopped focusing on words a long time ago. give me
something real. a touch on the hand, a brush of the hair, a kiss on the lips. the emotions
running behind her eyes, beneath the surface, betraying her words, those are real to me.

and the truth is all mapped out, right there, on her face. as long as you know
where to start looking.

funny. i?ve never paid much attention before.

i realize suddenly that she?s still talking. she hasn?t moved her head, though, and i
pray she hasn?t noticed the weight of my gaze. i struggle to remember the last thing she
said before i zoned out, and for the life of me, i can?t recall anything

but I can remember the last thing I thought.

god, she?s beautiful.

* * *

people always said i was born old. even as a kid, i was always 10 going on 20, or
13 going on 32. i knew too much for my short span of life.

i liked it that way. i still do.

when i was younger, i took it as a compliment. i liked the feeling of superiority it
gave me. knowing more than everyone else was what i strived for, whether in the
classroom or at the neighborhood park. i believed that if i looked at a person hard
enough, i would see right inside them. to look, to see, to know. i thought i was hot shit
for being able to do that. but the older i grew, the less i cared, because everything i
learned left me hard and bitter and cynical.

i look at susan and i know the day she grew up, the very day. it was when she
realized, when all was said and done, she?d rather be a child than know those things
anymore.

her eyes, they get dried out, they ache, they frown, and they spend countless hours
in front of a computer screen or buried in a book, fighting the insomnia, not wanting the
nightmares that come with sleep. but they don?t cry.

* * *

?so do you love him more than you love me?? i ask as my left hand burrows in her
hair.

?no, i love you, but he?s safe.? she still hasn?t looked at me.

?safe how??

?he?s not real. real people are complicated.?

?i?m safe.?

?no, you can?t be safe. you?re real.?

?but i?m safe.?

?no, you aren?t?

a pause while my brain works around the alcohol. then, tightening my grip on her
waist and leaning my face close to her ear, the scent of her shampoo filling my lungs, i
whisper, ?i love you too much to hurt you.?

close enough to kiss her. to kiss her and swallow her and...i stop that train of
thought abruptly. one step at a time.

?why do you love me?? if i was sober, her question would have surprised me. but
i?m too far gone to feel anything except the pulsating warmth against my body.

i twist her hair around my fingers, letting the strands fall through them like drops
of water. ?i dunno. i just do.?

?there?s gotta be a reason.?

?no there doesn?t?

?everything has a reason. it?s logical.?

?faith doesn?t. not everyone needs a reason to believe in god. some people just
do. they don?t think about it logically. they just follow their hearts.?

?but that doesn?t make any sense.?

?when did everything have to make sense? thinking can only get you so far in life.
feeling will take you the rest of the way. if you spend yer entire life over-analyzing
everything, trying to figure it all out, then you don?t get anywhere. yer just stagnant. and
that?s not living.?

?but feelings can be wrong.?

?feelings aren?t right or wrong, they just are. if you had to choose from three
paths to take, and you looked at each one, and they were all identical, each with the same
benefits, each with the same consequences, then how would you choose? feeling, instinct,
what?s inside you, that?s what would help you choose, not thinking.?

?then i chose to hurt jeffrey when i didn?t need to.? she?s crying now, curled into a
ball, curled around herself, trying to hold it in. her face is buried in a pillow and even
though i can?t hear her sobs, i can see the way her shoulders shake, and i know that if i
were to touch her cheek, i would feel tears.

?you did what you had to do. right or wrong, its over and done with, you can?t
go back and you can?t change what happened between you and jeffrey. all you can do is
learn from yer mistakes and promise to do better next time.?

i trail off and just hold her, letting my physical closeness provide the comfort my
words cannot. because she?s stopped believing in the truth of words, too. and no matter
what i say, she can choose not to believe me. but its hard to ignore a hand entwined with
yours, a face pressed to your shoulder, and fingers buried in your hair.

* * *

i don?t know how much time has passed since we last spoke. seconds, minutes,
hours. this is almost too perfect, too blindingly perfect, to be real. and i want to say
something into the silence to make sure this isn?t a dream that will fade away when i wake
up. i fight the urge to spoil the moment, but i can?t help but seek confirmation.

?so what are we going to do??

a small grin catches the corners of her lips, and in a light and playful tone, she says,
?well, in the next few days, we?ll see atlantis with ginny, and i?ll go to work, and you?ll
keep looking for a job...?

?no, i mean, about us. what?s gonna happen with us??

she grows serious, her hand sliding up and down my arm, gently caressing. those
dark, shadowed eyes are thoughtful, calculating, maybe. i feel like i?m standing naked in
the storm and waiting for some hundredth shoe to fall. waiting for her withdrawal to
shrivel the hand i know is extending far too deeply into the ice. and i wonder if she feels
it, too. ?i dunno. i mean, i dunno why i love you. i dunno if this is repression or curiosity
or what.?

and those same lies i gave her last night come rushing to the surface. ?i
understand. its okay. i?m not going anywhere. hell, i?ve waited for a couple months. i
can wait a couple more.?

its true, though. i would wait for her. if i thought i had a chance.

* * *

song lines. in the quiet, nothing but white noise filling the room, bits and pieces of
thought twist themselves into a chorus of a song. a song i begin to hum softly, only for
my ears, into the quiet, into the white noise.

and you are looking for the one thing
that you never could define
and you are sitting in the backseat
watching the world go by
and you are singing with the radio
waiting for a sign
but the moment?s coming fast
and you?re running out of time
when are you going to decide?

the moment?s coming fast, speeding towards us, it cannot be stopped, it cannot be
denied. i know she?ll try to, though. delay. deny. push it down, push it aside, wish it
dead and gone. she?ll lay down in her bed at night and wonder what she ever did to
deserve something so wholly complicated and potentially painful. she?ll pray for a
reprieve from god. she?ll wait for a miracle.

but nothing can prevent this moment.

not even god.

* * *

we?re quiet again, each lost in our own thoughts. utena was over a long time ago,
the tape?s been rewound, and now some infomercial parades across the screen. idly, i flip
through the channels, not really watching, just needing something to do. a hundred
channels, a hundred thoughts, and i can?t focus on anything for more than a brief moment.
so its a welcome distraction when the doorbell rings.

i sit up, and she does the same. the room swims in my vision, the sense of vertigo
making me nauseous. as i wait for everything to stop spinning, i wrap both arms around
her waist, pull her close, and whisper against her neck, ?i love you.? then i stand and walk
downstairs, the words still singing in my ears. three small little words, no more than eight
letters total, and i can only pray they will be enough.

she doesn?t respond, just sits there, and lets the words wash over her.

tiffani?s on the porch with no where to go until her friend wendy gets home. she
wants to know if she can hang out for an hour. i?m too drunk to say ?no?, and too sober
to say ?yes?. still, i open the front door wider and motion her in with a wide sweep of my
arm.

i go back upstairs without even checking to see if tiffani?s behind me. my feet
seem too big for the stairs, and i keep losing my footing. the railing is the only thing
holding me upright.

?you?re drunk!? a statement, not a question, and she sounds more amused than
shocked.

?just a little,? i lie, missing another stair. ?okay, maybe more than a little.?

returning to my bedroom, i throw myself on the bed next to her. my floor?s a
complete mess, a ?safety hazard?, according to my parents, and the only visible carpet is a
path from my door to my bed. papers strewn everywhere, clothes separated into piles of
?clean?, ?dirty, but decent?, and ?filthy?, random odds and ends, unused school books. i?ve
only been home from college for a little over a week, and i?m still trying to figure out what
to do with all the crap i?ve managed to collect. tiffani sits down at the foot of the bed and
tries to look comfortable.

?do you wanna drink or sumpthin??? at least i have enough good sense to try to be
a decent hostess.

?sure. do you have any beer??

?tons. just look on the bottom shelf of the fridge.? and tiffani?s off like a shot. i
hear the refrigerator door slam and then the pounding of feet running up the stairs.
darting into my room, a bottle of corona held triumphantly in her right hand, tiffani?s grin
reminds me of the cheshire cat. mischievous and all too pleased with herself.

except when she realizes she forgot a bottle opener.

we try everything to get the bottle cap off without a return trip to the kitchen. i
take two keys and, holding them like a pair of scissors, place one under the edge of the
cap and the other across the top. i pull back, believing the cap will just come right off, and
instead manage to cut my thumb on one of the sharp edges.

bleeding. its red. a deep crimson and if i pull back the edges of the cut, i can see
the layers of skin. i?m fascinated by the blood welling up in that crevice and spilling over.
its like i never saw myself bleed before. so amazing, to think of all that blood running
through my body.

tiffani exclaims, ?oh my god, jen, yer bleeding.? and tosses me a hand towel that
was sitting on the ?clean? pile. i press the towel to my finger, and the sharp bite of pain
makes me gasp. the cut is deeper than i thought.

?well, i thought it would work. i mean, i saw some guy do it before.?

?yeah, but i?m sure he?s had much more practice.?

as tiffani and i argue, she slips quietly out of the room. i look up just in time to see
her disappear out the door. the pain in my finger lessens and my voice takes on the
dramatic tones of a stage whisper, ?there goes the girl i love.?

tiffani just stares, her mouth hanging open, looking for all the world like a fish.
?what!?? she manages. i smirk and let my gaze drift to the television, ignoring the strange
look she?s giving me.

she returns shortly after and leans against the door frame, one armed wrapped
around her waist, the other dangling loosely at her side. a manual can opener in her hand.
taking the beer from tiffani, she uses the bottle opener built into the appliance to pop off
the cap. then before i can blink, she dashes for the bathroom, the door closes behind her,
and i can hear her throwing up. my stomach churns in sympathy. bile rises in my throat.
close my eyes, rest my forehead on tiffani?s shoulder. ?i will not throw up. i will not
throw up.?

the bathroom door opens slowly, hinges creaking. she steps out, bathed in orange
yellow light, looks disheveled and glassy-eyed and lost. ?i think i need some new clothes.
and a shower. definitely a shower.?

i nod, get up, and stumble towards the sink. ?take a cold one. maybe it will help.?
bend down, pull out two towels, a washcloth, a bottle of good shampoo. herbal essences,
her favorite, and i love the way it smells on her. hand them to her. usher her into the
bathroom. ?i?ll find you a toothbrush so you can brush yer teeth when you?re finished.?

?thanks,? and the door closes again.

she?s tall and skinny. i?m the former, and nowhere near the latter. searching
through my clothes piles, i come across a pair of paint-splattered jeans that are too small
for me and a button-up gte shirt. she gave me the shirt a couple years ago, so i think it
will work perfectly now. add her discarded bra and underwear, and she?s set. i place the
new clothing just outside the bathroom door and go downstairs. i still have chores to do.

its a miracle that i can vacuum while drunk.

* * *

the water streams over my neck and shoulders, down my back, down the drain.
soap suds make my hair stick up at odd angles. mohawk. alfalfa. george washington. its
thick and hot, steam rising around me like a warm fog, my pores soaking up the moisture.
?i can swim in this? and the mental picture makes me giggle. i tilt my head back to rinse
out the shampoo, the smell of jasmine and rosemary conjures up images of her. i wish she
would walk into the shower right now and join me.

i left the bathroom door unlocked, just in case.

i just wish she saw it, y?know. or if she did see it, i just wish she?d accept it. i
look at her and i imagine what we would have, and its breathtaking and its beautiful and
its right. it makes sense. she completes me so perfectly that i can?t believe i?ve lived this
long without her. all i want to do is show her that life doesn?t have to hurt all the time and
that it can be good and can be wonderful.

but she?s the one in control here. she doesn?t have to see it if she doesn?t want to.

i skip the conditioner. she hasn?t even said yes yet, and already, i can?t be apart
from her for more than 10 minutes.

* * *

she leaves a few hours later. we watch the sci fi channel remake of ?the shining?,
share a pizza, sit on separate couches. when 11 o?clock rolls around, she decides it is time
for her to go home. i follow her out to her car and when she opens the driver?s side door
to get in without hugging me, i believe its over. with the numb, surreal quality that comes
with drinking, it was easy. but now, in the blindingly bright face of reality, it may be too
hard to bear.

so i am prepared to accept the fact that she can?t handle what she sees in my eyes
when i stare at her when i think she isn?t looking.

but she walks around the car door and hugs me. i almost cry.

?when one of us gets a hold of ginny, the one has to call the other.? a neutral
topic, and, whether or not she notices, a promise that we will talk to one another again.

she nods. ?right. she?ll talk to one of us with enough pestering.?

??xactly. g?night hon. drive home safely.?

?night.?

i turn as she gets in the car and say aloud, ?its been a weird coupla days.? walk
back up towards my porch before she can respond, open the front door, close it behind
me, sagging against the wooden support. i hear her car pull away. my eyes drift across
the downstairs portion of the house. the living room is in shambles, the kitchen sink is
piled high with dirty dishes, i know i need to clean up before going to bed, but it all seems
pointless somehow. so i push myself away from the door and wander upstairs to bed. the
mess will still be there in the morning.

------------------
No matter what we have come through, or how many perils we have safely passed, or how imperfect and jagged our life has been, we cannot in our heart of hearts imagine how it could have been different. As we look back on it, it slips in behind us in orderly disarray, and, with all its mistakes, acquires a sort of eternal fitness, and even, at times, a poetic glamour.

-Randolph Silliman Bourne