August 13, 2008
I sometimes bargain with the sky, while standing outside in between the old green dumpsters at work, the ones which bear inescapable shadows of Lake Country Motorsports stickers, the only place where I can barely be guaranteed a few moments of solitude. I watch the 164 traffic roll by and wonder if they � those people I�ve waited on, those people I�ve never met before, the second glance acquaintances � notice the hope fading from my stature.There I beg for a little punctuality with peace amongst my co-workers and I plead for the moments between now and the end of the day to move more quickly as though I had somewhere to go. It�s where I question the very ground upon which I stand, curse the cocktails well-consumed the night before and where I banter with the techs when they need a pick-me-up. It�s where I stretch when my back holds tight, it�s where I squat when my legs ache with fire and it�s where I pace when I�ve been settled behind a computer for too long.
It�s in those moments when I�m not bound and busy, searching for gaskets or pricing tires, when I�m not competing with the voice of an angry customer or lost in the details of a friend�s recent riding fiasco. It�s in those moments that I think back and stroll down lost roads, remembering when, tasting the same air I used to taste, hearing the same songs we used to sing � it�s where I fall for him all over.
It�s an August weekend pleasantly packed with the welcomed and unexpected magic that new and noirish relationships unfailing seem to bring. All over again, it�s a stone-topped table at which we sit and there�s nothing in the world that could have been, at that moment, more intimating than that of our waiter�s name � August. A pure folly of fate led us there, to the best pizza ever over which gazed the deepest, most passionate pairs of eyes. We glistened as we spoke, we were electrified as we listened. We were the two people on the street you love to hate when you�re lowly passing by, feeling lonely or unwanted � we were the antithesis of both.
And that�s where I go when I walk outside � where it�s never too late.
There I can walk awhile in surrender without regretting the moments I let him slip from my grasp for, at least in thought, he�s right there, watching me as I stroll by, just about to pull into the parking lot or nearly dialing my number on his phone. There he�s almost ready to be reintroduced to my widened eyes, my chest bursting full of interest, my lips curled with inquiry.
It�s another evening full of what we do when we need desperately to wind down. He doesn�t have to speak to me to reveal the nervous tones wrought within his bones � I feel them well enough from where I stand. It�s an undeniable magnetism, an attraction we had not sought. We haven�t defined it, addressed it directly or even made the suggestion of its potential but we both know it�s there, like a low steam rising from the ground, surrounding our bodies with obvious density. We puzzle each other pleasantly. We distance ourselves not too carefully. We notice each other without letting on and yet everyone knows.
Where we stand.
It�s where I sometimes bargain with the sky, standing in between the present and my past, watching the future roll by. It�s where I get to cradle him in my thoughts and wish him the best, for today and tomorrow (his birthday), and for all the days he has struggled through with a heart that still answers my own heartbeat. It�s where the hope in my soul rises � with the thought that perhaps he wanders there, too.