Seven Ways We Lie(51)

The skinny metal neck of the sink clouds up, up with my breath

how did i get down here? slumped down here, i’m blackout drunk and it’s only 11:00.

pathetic.

the roof of my mouth tastes like vomit.

i can’t get away from me

(i need you, my one piece of sanity—

you know i do.)

no. what i need is some goddamn self-control.

stand. wipe. breathe. exit.

the smile on my lips tastes like blood and dry lipstick.

where the hell did the blood come from? stomach? throat? heart?

the solution to drunkenness, obviously, is drink more!

god, help, it burns.

all i know is this: it has felt like a dark age, an ice age since you left me.

when you said good-bye, i heard good luck.

i’ve found no good in anything since.

· · · · · · ·

now—minutes, hours, god knows—it’s all the same.

stumbling around . . . where am i? hard to tell from the floorboards (juniper, don’t embarrass yourself, stay on your feet)

(make bubbling greetings; share a laugh with girls you’d recognize were you the slightest bit sober but)

the door opens.

valentine?—word’s out before it’s a conscious decision.

two years i’ve known him and never seen him outside a school building.

you’d think he was grown there, cultivated in a test tube, carefully, carefully cultured, and now there he stands, as unnatural as anything.

he says, may we please talk? i tried to find you all week, but i never caught you after school, and lunch got . . . complicated, so may we speak? in private?

me: why

him: it’s a sensitive topic

my throat chokes on itself. (i’m still swaying, world’s still swaying) i stagger.

my palm slaps the wall—

my stomach twirls inside my torso— my brain’s got its grip on its favorite subject again.

my fingers slip in slick sweat on the phone in my pocket . . .

would it be weak to text? to ask?

(are you okay without me, don’t miss me

i don’t want you to hurt like i do)

or would it be cruel?

· · · · · · ·

get your hand out of your pocket, juniper.

he can handle himself.


valentine: are you feeling okay?

me: what yeah fine, i think . . . gonna get another drink

finding the ground under my feet, toe by toe valentine: water. water is what you need.

water, the prospect tempts me. i reel back valentine: good god, let me help.

his hand brushing my back, we totter past clumps of bodies we stop by the kitchen counter

and the bottle starts pouring itself.

valentine, quietly: stop.

i stop.

but the clear crystal liquid looks so beautiful.

i am so thirsty for it—

i am ravenous—

my thoughts a hundred thousand devouring mouths.

me: what did you want to talk about?

him: may we go somewhere, um, private?

me, smiling: hmm, what type of conversation is this? should i trust your motives?

(am i flirting with valentine simmons?

the idea is so funny, i’m about to cry, i’m about to)

him: . . . trust my motives?

me: i do trust you, it was a joke, don’t worry don’t worry

him: you do? why?

me: what, why do i trust you? i mean . . . i trust anyone reasonable. and nice.

his laugh is strange, plucks of a guitar string, light tenor. you think i’m nice.

me: you seemed nice when we talked.

him: of course.

me: so, what you wanted to ask . . .

he fidgets, shifts, his lips part. okay, he says, this is . . . and he half laughs, but it dies fast, he takes up a glass, fills it with sprite, smashes it back, and his eyes lose their light and grow soft and the stubborn line of his mouth loosens, and i make him a brief in-depth study.

him: I’m trying to figure out how to ask you . . .


david—

this is me giving in.

this is me telling valentine, wait, hold up, gotta . . . bathroom, be right back

this is me sneaking through thresholds to a guest bedroom, dark, hidden.

opening the cabinet, rummaging for another secret drink (one that will freeze and sweat and gasp against my hand) three twists to the cap

two acid swallows straight from the bottle and then speed-dial one

the only one.

two rings and a click and there he is. (so easy. too easy.) I . . . Juniper? Are you okay? Why are you calling? What’s going on?

the murmur of his voice is a warm sun, after a chain of chilly, darkened days.

i remember, before our love got lost in labors, i could see the future mapped out in road signs, glaring from the sides of dark highways.

i remember, if i gave him a way to wax poetic, he spoke the full moon to me.


i lie on the bed, take another sip of bitter cold and imagine the empty space filled with the posture of his body.

head’s gone back to spinning

lazily, like a mobile,

my brain bobbing two feet above this body.

sleepy. david . . . david

There you are. Talk to me. Everything okay?

you at home? i ask.