The Chrome Phase

It had been years, but with one sip I tasted everything. Marlboro Lights mixed with bonfire smoke. Roasted marshmallows. Horseshoes in fresh cut grass. Crickets chirping before a late storm. And the salty taste of his lips. The summer I'll always remember.

"It's been down to here," he gestured to his fourth shirt button.  "But a couple years ago I trimmed it short."  I stroked its current length, an inch or so, well-groomed and fragrant.  I gave it a tug and kissed his cheek.

I came to in the passenger seat, head throbbing. Bruised, probably. Keys vanished; him too.  I deserved it. We began intimately, but my last recollection was rage. Forgive me , I silently pleaded.  My phone chimed. Desperately, I swiped and read.  “We’re done."

I can’t answer anymore. He stabbed the cork and twisted clockwise. “Patience. They’re here only one night. You, a month.” Pop, pour. Time stops in a hotel. A stranger arrived next to me. “Where’re you from?” Yet again, I answer. Pop, pour. Answering the ultimate question: Have all your clocks stopped?

Standing in the kitchen, my back to him, Jones pushed his fist into the knot in my shoulder. “What did you do to yourself?” he asked as he worked out my pain. “I have no idea. It must have been you,” I said mischievously, stepping away for a minute to grab a drink from the fridge. “You can’t say it wasn't worth it,” he said, one-upping me. Jones continued the massage as I guzzled a Gatorade. I turned my attention to the gallery of photos on his fridge and noticed a recurring face. A young woman, squeaky clean and innocent, smiled like a darling in at least a half a dozen pictures with her head on Jones’ shoulder. In the middle was a photo of the pair at a football game wearing matching Redskins jerseys. Another of her with Jones in a beautifully intimate pose, their eyes closed and foreheads touching. It didn't upset me. Jones and I were longtime friends who provided only occasional distractions. We had no higher expectations of each other. I was curious, so I asked. ...

Lose count of how much plastic surgery you see within five minutes of arrival at LAX. Help your host select a lemon tree at Home Depot on the way to Palmdale. Kiss two months of sobriety goodbye with some margaritas.  Split a bottle of wine after the margaritas and paint each other’s toenails. Go out for Mexican food after you should be passed out in bed. Spend the next morning touching up the errors in your toenail polish. Celebrate a friend’s return to the States over beers and half a tri-tip sandwich in San Louis Obispo. Have more beer and take a nap with The Who.  Let everyone sleep in your hotel room because theirs is just too scary. Go wine-tasting in a limo with a stripper pole.  Learn how to properly sniff wine, but don’t get frustrated when you can’t tell the difference in any of them. Drink a $150 wine without swirling or sniffing. Vogue in front of a boxcar.  Take a nap in broad daylight while a party rages around you. Learn the hard ...

One moment I was hanging from Perry’s shoulders, my arms around his neck, a movie in slow motion. The next moment was a series of film frames in fast-forward: My arms rubbed his arms as we pulled apart. Our hands found each other and connected. They loosened and the tips of my fingers grazed his palm, slid over his knuckles. Our fingertips dallied before our arms fell to our sides. Then, the void I was dreading. Roll credits. One hour ago, we were standing in a smoky bar. It was the last day of finals, and I had just come from a five-hour work shift. We tried and failed to have a conversation because the band was much too loud for the size of the room. I was exhausted, and a bar was the last place I wanted to be. But for Perry’s last night in town, I would have gone to the moon. It felt like I'd been rocketed there already, anyway. One night ago, we were sharing a twin bed, innocently, his head on the pillow and mine on his shoulder. I was asking him, no, begging him not t...