We were on our way to dinner, then the park, then to see Janice and the gang over at Karen's, for a quick drink before midnight would arrive. "You better get moving. You better get started now." Me: "Huh?" "This isn't really great snowball snow. It's kind of icy. You better move."
He hates me. I swear sometimes, sometimes, he hates me. He loathes me. I am a hold-your-breath I-just-can't-stand-it sort of irritant to him. He is polite. He can do a good 24 hours with me. 12 at least. We are great that first 12. Good the first 24. I find myself thinking, "What did I DO?" Always. I can never quite pinpoint it. I almost feel a panic. It does me no service to inquire. That wall goes up, it is up. He's good.
In vino veritas. Early on, I preferred Spence when he would drink. 'Preferred' is not the correct term. He would loosen up. He would talk. Most importantly, that wall would lower a bit, and he would volunteer endearing sentiments. This came at the time I was newly falling in love with him. I welcomed the sentiments regardless of their design. We all know the drinking was problematic. It does seem ironic it was the isolation I experianced when I'd lose him to drink that I initially took issue with. Greg, like all the others, like myself, like all of us, loosens up with a few drinks. Odd though. He never needed to loosen up before. Now, this wall. He hates me. All I could conclude before was that I was just such a disappointment, his irritation just seeped out of him. He started getting odd and distant before I went out last time though. All it took was me becoming fully engaged in our relationship/friendship, and he got queer. I suppose, after a few things he's said, he is as perplexed with my behavior as I am his. Ten years of silence is how he perceives me, and now, here I am. I do fear I will lose him to all of this. I will lose my ten years. I know I never would have had my studio back without him. I know he provided a rock for me to tether myself to when I had no idea what direction the storm was taking me. But here I am. I have lost him by finally, and actually, showing up.
I dragged this home with me. He said I could have it. He said if I came out I could have it. I was already in that forward direction. That commitment you get when to get past the cold of the water, you just dunk right in. The decision has been made. You just wait for the next swell, and drop. The adrenaline can seem more shocking to the system then the water itself. He said I could have it. I wasn't in the door 20 minutes when he started suggesting I take other pieces, that I suppose mean more in the grand scope of his creative endeavors, and I should be absolutely flattered he'd allow me to have, but this was the one I wanted. I couldn't risk it disappearing into the recesses of our memory. And the words on it read so different now. You know nothing, erin. You know nothing. I fight the wave of regrets that rush upon me. Everything feels so intangible at current. I am haunted by these words. He will never tell me what I meant. Never. I suppose that may very well be my penance. And for that, erin, you will get the silence.