June 19, 2015


So many things. I barely know how to start and stop. So I will just ramble about the things.

Above shown is a ring made of shell and acrylic which I purchased for something like 1 dollar in a gift shop in a cabin resort area where I stayed with Greg and his family in Florida, however long ago that was. It led a good life, that ring, and I imagine it still resides somewhere amidst my stuff, my boxes, bags and piles of stuff, although I have admittedly downsized tremendously since moving back to the great City of New York. So perhaps it got downsized, too? Although if I run across it again, I will, in fact, actively return it into adornment rotation.

I suppose I would like to begin with last week.

My first-year Shawmut review was conducted, with John, my Project Executive escorting me off site to a nearby bistro and engaging in a two-hour long conversation with me over fruit and coffee (he ate the fruit and drank the coffee; I was too nervous to gulp anything but water) about my first full year of performance. It was an excellent conversation; I have seemed to have garnered a lot of trust with my peers, and of course, that makes a person feel proud and accomplished. And I received my first raise, announced, by John, at the tail end of our conversation. I'm on a good track and pace. I'm happy.

Then Tuesday of this week, I celebrated my official 1-year anniversary of starting with Shawmut.

These items are so pivotal to who I am, to who I wish to become, and to who I wish to see myself develop into (a construction management higher level professional) over the next months / years.

All good things.

I could launch into so many vivid stories on that note.

However, my main focus is going to be, clearly evident from past postings, my ongoing infrequent yet frequently held in my heart love affair with / and / or / about Greg.

We've taken another semi-hiatus, nearly exclusively speaking over email and the occasional text: sometimes days pass before I hear from him, though I've been quite open and willing to accept his arms' length distance from me.

We see each other in writing class once a week (unless either of us is, for whatever reason, absent on a random Tuesday night) and we conduct ourselves in appropriate manner, speaking to each other's pieces or others' in regular writing class student fashion, and there is always, for the entire 3-hour duration of the class, a tug at my heartstrings, noticing his physical presence, watching him gesture with his hands, listening to his response in his very familiar and endearing voice as he shapes the words. I want to, sometimes, just rest my hand on his arm and feel the warmth of his skin. At times, we barely exchange expressions. At times, more recently, we share solemn ones. Other times, more recently, we exchange knowing ones. This past Tuesday we actually slightly smiled at each other, maybe twice.

If anyone were to witness us looking at each other, it would come as no surprise that we have a very rock solid foundation love for one another. I take that back: a fragile, unstable foundation of love, but that the love is there (or, here, to establish its present-tense presence.)

Earlier in the week, I mentioned seeing Denise (his therapist) with him Thursday (tonight.) He of course responded that as always, I'm always invited to his sessions with Denise. So I determined myself to go.

There is a large issue that I'm not disclosing here at the moment. And I won't yet. I'm too timid. But it is the enormous fault line in our relationship.

This morning, for some completely unreasonable reason, I woke up angry at everyone and everything. I rose earlier than usual in order to catch the L at a time that would travel me to Union Square to catch the 6 to travel me to Midtown in order to locate hopefully breakfast and an iced coffee. The L was running with delay, so much so that when the train *did* arrive, the swarms of people on the platform at Lorimer Street pushed and shoved their ways into the cars in droves, and no one was comfortable, and the train conductor announced that the next stop would be Union Square. So far in my travels on the L, I've *never* known a train to go from Lorimer right to Union Square. That means skipping Bedford Ave, 1st Street and 3rd Street. I mean...good for me, as Union Square is my normal next destination...but for New Yorkers who ride the L...that's a lot of skipped stops.

And when I arrived at Union Square with all of my fellow sardines, the Lex line was running like shit, too. It was basically a ridiculous commute.

I don't know. I wanted to scream. I felt a mountain of horrific anger mounting. And when I finally did arrive at work, with just an iced coffee (no time for breakfast hunting) my people (my office staff people) were all in social activity mode, chatting, laughing, and I just couldn't find it in me to relax and enjoy it as I normally do. Instead, I grimaced at my computer monitor and shoved, for the first time ever at work, ear buds into my ears, cranked a play list from my iPhone, and just tuned life outside of me OUT.

I knew, this entire time, that my commitment to therapy with Denise (after many missed sessions) was approaching. And life was buzzing around me like a big bloated bee ready to give birth to thousands of little buzzing bees, all with sharp stingers.

But the day passed as usual. And I accomplished just about as much as I wanted to.

And then I headed back downtown to Union Square, where Denise's office is located.

It was odd: Greg has this thing about punctuality. I was literally 5 minutes away at the intersection of like 11th and Broadway, so close to 12th and Broadway where Denise is located. I was racing against the clock to ensure I would not be late.

The thing about seeing a doctor, or therapist, or what have you, in New York City, is that it's 9 times out of 10 in a door man building, with an elevator, then there's a hallway, and another, before you arrive at your location. I was calculating, to the millisecond, how late I would be based on having only 5 minutes left to arrive at 6 on the dot.

Turns out, I arrived before Greg. And I didn't have to buzz myself in because a guy was leaving through the door that I needed to go in as I was coming in, *this is all irrelevant information*, so I never buzzed Denise's door. When I entered the waiting room, it was 6 *on the proverbial nose* and there was no Greg in sight. I assumed he was already in with Denise. I timidly knocked on her door, and she opened it slightly and it turns out she was still with another client (insert more KB mortification, holy goodness did I feel awful) and Greg wasn't there yet.

I'm absolutely typing these details for my own memory, even while the details seem quite specific and boring. I need to remember these moments.

At whatever point when the dust settled and the previous client had departed and Greg and I were facing one another with Denise as our facilitator, conversation flowed fairly smoothly. I saw, in his eyes, a very (if I can still read him correctly) strong urge to cry. His lips trembled (I know this and have seen it so many times) but he didn't cry. My eyes welled up yet I didn't cry, either. But we were both on that precipice.

It was an impeccable hour, with Denise offering so much, with her constant cheerleading of us as a possible "couple" (she loves us, it's really so sweet and impossibly incredible) and we discussed hugely important things.

I am using the word "things" as a place holder for the real crux of what I wish to disclose, which I believe I will, someday, when I am ready.

What I want to get to, before I end this post, is the end of the night.

We stepped out of Denise's office, took the Exit Doors to the Elevator Bay, and he touched my arm. We talked a little (much more than we have in weeks yet what feels like decades, on some of my loneliest nights.) We rode the elevator to the street level, stood for a moment outside of the building diagonal from The Strand Bookstore (just noting for location's sake) and he asked, "Do you want to get some ice cream with me?"

My heart soared. He may or may have not noticed. He probably did - I mean, my eyes don't tell a lie. But I looked at him for maybe ten seconds, ready to say No, but said Yes, instead. And he nodded, and then we walked in the direction of his favorite ice cream parlor, which he admitted is his regular ice cream place after Denise every week.

As we walked, we discussed his piece from writing class this past week. We discussed many more things, all lighter than what we usually discuss, but we were walking, and I was watching my feet, one in front of another. And I was wondering (to be honest) what it would feel like if his hand were to fall into mine like a key into a latch.

We arrived at his ice cream place, walked in, and he pulled out his wallet, declared, "I've got this, whatever you want." There were ice cream cases filled with flavored ice creams, the hand-scoop ones, and I found one that said, "Avocado Ice Cream." I knew I wanted a milkshake so I went back over to Greg, and turned to the cashier, and said, "Avocado milkshake please." I looked to Greg who was busy already indulging on a cookies-n-cream waffle cone, and he informed me, "I've eaten avocado ice cream in California." I asked, "Was it good?" He shook his head no.

"What am I getting myself into?" I asked, and he shrugged, and paid for our ice cream treats.

We headed to the bench in front of the parlor.

We sat.

There was a warm feeling. I cannot say that it was a coming together, but it was somewhat of a something. Maybe that something remains to be seen for what its actual value will wind up to be.


We were on the bench in front of the parlor.

I asked him if he wanted to try my milkshake.

He tilted his chin in my direction, as if for me to hold the milkshake to his lips, my straw, sharing my straw with his lips, and I did so, and he tasted it that way.

My heart melted, as it will always do when moments of our intimacy are livened back to vibrancy like that.

After some more time that we spent sitting on the bench, he said, "I'm going to stand now."

I nodded, and we stood.

We walked in the direction of 3rd Avenue and he asked, "What way are you going?" to which I responded, with a nod, in the direction of 14th Street. He replied, "Oh, yes, the L."

We stood at the intersection looking at each other.

I stated, "Thank you for the avocados and milk."

He nodded without a word.

I wanted nothing more than to collapse into him, cover his frame with mine and fall madly in love again.

But we're not there, right now.

Thus, we parted ways.

And here I am, writing this.