Los Angeles. The past four days a frantic pace of sunshine & sex & cars & people. Where to even start. With the brunch that morning? Or before that. We finally had a morning to sleep in, to make love repeatedly, to dress slowly and casually and then to sit outside and drink our coffee and eat our omelets, to talk deeply, to order another coffee because we weren’t ready to go yet. The sex—constant, thick, furtive (there aren’t adequate words for sex with him)—was a thread running throughout the four days. Like our conversations, like our companionship when it’s easy, its own dialogue to be left off and picked back up again. I relaxed with N. (sangria at that outdoor cafe, bookstores, record stores), but felt rushed and performative with A. and T. Performing Amanda-in-Los Angeles. What was I trying to say to him that night in the car? Staring at my dress, avoiding his face. I can see now that it was simple but inexpressible—sadness. Loss. I had already put the guard up, put it up that night in the car so that by the time we said goodbye at the airport I was able to do it casually, lightly. I’d already accepted that it was back to other cities, other lives, other lovers. I get scared when I don’t feel like I can handle the pressure of the not knowing, the loose boundaries, the restrictions, when it all feels too painful. To have that physical love, the verbal love, the words, the understanding, the companionship, to have my love, my lover, my best friend, and then give him up. Walk away. Realign. I get so scared of losing my life here in the waiting for him. That’s what I’m always reminding myself, always struggling to remember. Here. Now. What I’m reading. What I’m writing. What is right in front of my face. Summer. A self to cultivate. New York.
Los Angeles. The past four days a frantic pace of sunshine & sex & cars & people. Where to even start. With the brunch that morning? Or before that. We finally had a morning to sleep in, to make love repeatedly, to dress slowly and casually and then to sit outside and drink our coffee and eat our omelets, to talk deeply, to order another coffee because we weren’t ready to go yet. The sex—constant, thick, furtive (there aren’t adequate words for sex with him)—was a thread running throughout the four days. Like our conversations, like our companionship when it’s easy, its own dialogue to be left off and picked back up again. I relaxed with N. (sangria at that outdoor cafe, bookstores, record stores), but felt rushed and performative with A. and T. Performing Amanda-in-Los Angeles. What was I trying to say to him that night in the car? Staring at my dress, avoiding his face. I can see now that it was simple but inexpressible—sadness. Loss. I had already put the guard up, put it up that night in the car so that by the time we said goodbye at the airport I was able to do it casually, lightly. I’d already accepted that it was back to other cities, other lives, other lovers. I get scared when I don’t feel like I can handle the pressure of the not knowing, the loose boundaries, the restrictions, when it all feels too painful. To have that physical love, the verbal love, the words, the understanding, the companionship, to have my love, my lover, my best friend, and then give him up. Walk away. Realign. I get so scared of losing my life here in the waiting for him. That’s what I’m always reminding myself, always struggling to remember. Here. Now. What I’m reading. What I’m writing. What is right in front of my face. Summer. A self to cultivate. New York.