Parallelograms

I want nothing more than to write about what I'm feeling but the words are so jumbled they'll just come out like a tangled ball of yarn of various colors, incapable of being unwound. So I guess instead I'll just talk freely and hope that things somehow unravel themselves.

I'm involved in this brilliant thing called Lit Crawl. Possibly I've mentioned it before, but the first Brooklyn event is nearing now and we're ramping up to prepare. Not to bore the Internet with details but the Lit Crawl is essentially a Literary Pub Crawl that includes curators, venues, events, bars, literati, yaddyaddy. It's great, and I love being involved.

As a committee member, I act as volunteer coordinator which essentially means that I recruit and monitor the volunteers for the event. It's been going well and I'm blissful and overjoyed to be a part of such a massive event.

Well, this past Monday's meeting (regular meeting) was canceled and moved to Thursday but I had already committed to a few "new" volunteer inquiries that we'd be meeting Monday at Solas (lovely bar in the East Village on 9th) so I decided that in lieu of canceling I would go station myself at Solas for the new recruits, those who would choose to possibly drop by.

Here is where I am going to struggle.

Only one new recruit showed up - a boy, his name which I will now withhold for Internet purposes. He approached me somewhat timidly as I sat at a table with a glass of wine and my iPhone and whatnot, and he asked whether or not I was with Lit Crawl and I was like, Why yes I am. And when he sat down across from me, thus launched, somehow, an entire 7.5 hour-long conversation. I know, Internet. What? (footnote: when I told this to Johnny, Johnny's response: "Jesus. I didn't talk that much in all of April." Ha ha ha! Johnny rocks.)

No other recruits showed up so it was just this boy and me and we somehow managed to drink more wine than Solas should have served and we spoke at lengths about just about everything that could possibly mean anything to either of us. See? I can't even talk about this.

He walked me home. How sweet is that? Completely unwarranted, he lives in Brooklyn and planned to take a cab, but first he walked me home.

While I want to go on...I don't want to finish this story. Not yet. I can't jinx things - I can't turn things into something they may never amount to be. But he did sleep here last night (days later than our first epic-length conversation, yes.) And this morning was quiet and his departure left me feeling somewhat - I mean, we had another incredible time last night and the whole room was filled, no matter at which bar, with just him and me - solemn, quiet, pretty, intent, deliberate.

When I woke up this morning and he was next to me, I didn't flinch, feel awkward, feel awful. I just admired his eyes and watched as he wrapped an arm around me and I slid closer to him and I let him gently run his fingers along the skin on the back of my neck, soft. I didn't want him to leave (I DIDN'T WANT HIM TO LEAVE) which is an incredible accomplishment in the evolution of me and boys.

But, he had to leave...he had a work interview to conduct, and so we'll now see where, if anywhere, this goes. I love the feeling of falling. It feels so real.

Above, more of my Arena. A 4-sided soffit which will be above a bar in that area. Parallel, our lives, our friends, our loves. I know. I'm lame.

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