Rendezvous
24 June 06 : 07.39 PM
Trapped 5
We were whirlwind running running away from starlight too much chemicals in our blood.
"If I OD'd, would you come to my funeral?" he asked me. I shook my head.
"If you did, I wouldn't either. It's too ugly."
"But we were never beautiful."
"You say it as if the antithesis of ugliness is beauty." he said, as he dragged on his cigarette. He holds it the most effeminate way, like he was afraid it might disintegrate between the clasp of his fingers. Then I saw him, under the streetlamp light of apricot dimness, I wish he didn't pollute his body that way, with nicotine and amphetamines, but who am I to say that of him?
I have a conversation that plays in my mind over and over like a broken record.
"Who are you trying to look cool for?" I asked him, in an almost condescending manner. He was holding his cigarette.
"You," he said, with his head tilted back, looking at me with narrow eyes, that for some strange reason, made him look almost handsome.
"Kill yourself. You're too cool for life." And I threw him a pack of fresh cigarettes.
He laughed and said, "I'm too cool for death."
Maybe it was the way we can talk about greek mythology like it's a part of our culture. Sometimes he calls me his Persephone because one day I'm going to cause seasons when I leave. I tell him he's no Hades. Hades' soundtrack is epic and hard. Something gay and wimpy like Death Cab is the story of his life. He laughs. He laughs at everything I say, even when I'm trying to put him down.
Is that it? Is that why he left? I tell him about these guys I lie to. He asks if I'd ever lied to him, then decides that I probably have. I told him it's ironic to ask me that.
"But you're Meryl Streep. Play the role."
But I guess he didn't get it, did he?