Loneliness is an odd emotion. Throwing yourself against the back of a couch in front of a screen with seventy-five things to watch at once solves almost every problem except loneliness. One finds no consolation in food and snacks, nor does he care much for the unfamiliar company on that screen. Sleep is unthinkable, and a book, if it’s good, can suffice for only an hour at most. Lonely people live all over the globe in front of pages and pictures, eating cheesecake or chips or other all-time favorites. They’re all, in the end, disappointed with the blandness of a sugar rush or the pale sting of livid salsa. Most of the couch dwellers have little reason to be lonely, but I…I have the ultimate reason.
Her name is Blake. She’s intoxicatingly obnoxious, laughs at almost everything with the same amount of good humor, tends to give herself credit for anything, has the best teeth I’ve ever seen, and holds my small heart in her delicate fingers. I apologize for the sentimental puke that may or may not keep appearing here, but I just finished a chick flick, the title of which I never knew and hope never to know; then I can’t answer questions. Oh, another thing which cannot solve loneliness: alcohol. The only good thing from the alcohol the lonely consumes is the sleep it brings, though the intensity of emotions while one is still awake seems to make the sleep a little less than worth it. My relationship with Blake is simplistic on the surface. We fell in love within weeks of our first meeting. Premature or not, I loved her. I know because I asked our waiter one night at the Blue Moon if he would please bring a gift in a small dessert to Blake after dinner and he refused. Sean was his name. He was an immigrant from Croatia, a large dark haired man with a permanantly broken nose, kind smile, and bright blue eyes that I always felt Blake enjoyed a little too much. Sean refused to bring the gift out in a dessert because the gift was a ring, en engagement ring. He must have known that Blake was going to leave me and didn’t want me to get hurt as badly. I liked Sean. We always asked for him to wait our table, and always tipped him beyond well. We practically (and I suppose by “we” I mean “I”) paid for his English education. Blake told me she liked his service because he could, even during our first dinner with him, assume exactly what she liked in her coffee. I’d chuckle, because I knew she got the same thing in her coffee every time. The first night Sean made a lucky guess and the rest of the time he just knew. Of course, I found out later that Sean spiked her coffee with Croatian vodka. There were no other Croates on staff, so obviously none of them would have known what she wanted with her coffee. The entire relationship went a bit like that. Blake had a set of unwritten rules with just about everyone, and just about everyone followed them. I seemed to be the only person who learned the hard way.
Like the first night I brought her back to my apartment, she has this unwritten rule about goodnight kisses. She hates them. We drank a bit, she wine and I vod-coke, and then we danced to Dean Martin. As I showed her to the door at the appropriate time, I spun her ever so softly on her heal and leaned in for the kiss. The night had gone so much better than expected; I hadn’t even stomped her toes during our dancing. She laid into my chest with her left palm and slapped me across the face with her right. “Don’t you ever be so forward again!” she commanded. She didn’t, however, walk out and slam the door. She went to my refrigerator and pulled out some 2% and made me a thick glass of chocolate milk. Then she sat down next to me on the couch, kissed my red cheek, and held my hand while sleeping the rest of the night. She slept at my apartment, but nearly killed me for a goodnight kiss. I should have ended it after that night. The slap-to-sleep progression isn’t natural. I should have seen the future.
But…other rules were broken and learned. She could sleep over at my apartment, but I couldn’t sleep over at hers. We didn’t sleep together, as in have sexual relations. We were both into our parents health, and they had brought us up to save sex for marriage. We cared about it, too, of course, but when you’re in your early twenties and still haven’t tried it, you truly are only holding back to make sure mom or dad doesn’t have a heart attack. We did sleep together like that on my couch on occasion though, my sitting up, and her lying on a couch pillow in my lap, gently stroking my hand until her eyes closed. I wasn’t allowed to eat seafood in her presence. She didn’t care for the smell, but that wasn’t really the reason. Her grandfather, whom she won’t meet until she dies, was a marine biologist. He wrote her a letter a week before he died telling her not to pollute the oceans and not to support the cardboard box industry. It’ll never last and she’ll be left without any money. She was seven months old when he wrote it. She read it at age twelve and looked at her mother after finishing. “Mom, Grandpa was sick when he wrote this, wasn’t he?” Her grandfather died at 87 with Alzheimers. She knows that he didn’t know what he was talking about, but honors the wish anyway, and now I can’t eat seafood (or buy cardboard boxes). I mean, I could, because I’m here on a couch, another chick flick already showing, and I don’t know where she is; I won’t, though. I’m half scared that she’d show up just to smack me, kiss it, sleep on my couch and walk away the next morning, and I have little money to spare on a prize lobster.
Her favorite smells haunt me to this day. When we first met there were discussions about smells. I told her my apartment would smell the way I wanted it to smell, and she could make her apartment a fruit if she wanted. I liked incense; I lean toward a more dark personality. She enjoyed natural smells like citrus or vanilla or pumpkin. Eventually we compromised. Her apartment was citrus. Mine was pumpkin.
She had few friends that enjoyed my company. Unfortunately one of those that did enjoy my company was a woman. I think her friend Lisa would have had me cheat on Blake one night, if I would have pushed the issue. I, of course, didn’t know the issue was there to push. I’m a lummox when it comes to knowing women and their signals. My only thoughts were centered on Blake’s mood that night. We were doubling with Lisa and a guy, playing poker at my kitchen table. I wondered why she was acting so harsh toward Lisa, and why she didn’t smile at me much like normal, and why she outright said my jokes were stupid instead of keeping that fact to herself. Later that night, when Lisa was gone with her date, Greg, who was a real hoot of a guy with a Law Degree and six pins in his ass, Blake walked up to me and kissed me so hard she cut my lip. She laughed hysterically while cleaning my chin, and told me of Lisa’s treachory. I thanked her for the cut and went into the restroom. I shaved my entire face and walked out to her sitting on the couch crying. She sobbed at me that this was not her best time of the month and that Lisa wanted me to straight up have sex with her. I told her she was overreacting. She threw her plastic cup at me, full of ice water, which contacted my face before I could block it. My cut opened up again, spilling down my chin. She, again laughing hysterically, climbed up on the counter to reach the bandaids and placed one over the cut after cleaning me up. Then, for kicks, she put three other bandaids on, went and got a blue sharpie, and drew designs on the bandages that looked like they belonged. I went into work the next day wearing them just to show them off. A few of my students were impressed, but the bandages only furthered rumors through the faculty that I’m an alcoholic. Oh yeah, I’m a teacher. I teach fourth grade English at a huge school in downtown Cincinatti, Ohio. It follows that I drive the nicest Toyota wagon in the county, and that if I want dates, I usually walk. I prefer walking to driving not because my car is so ugly, but because walking on a date makes the transition time less awkward. There are more things to look at and sounds to listen to. I’m an awful converstationalist.
Blake was not an awful conversationalist. I didn’t have to say more than six or seven words in an hour sometimes. She once almost talked Sean out of his job. We were late to the Blue Moon and got lucky on a slower evening. We didn’t get our usual table, but Sean was able to be our server. Blake started talking to him about why we were late. The gas station line, my not wanting to use credit, power outage in town, no working traffic lights: she discussed each topic in detail. Before Sean could leave to get our drinks he’d been standing there for twenty-five minutes watching Blake’s mouth smooth over and around words. She had the most beautiful way of talking. Words meant more from her mouth. She also placed plot twists, false plot twists, into stories at strategically boring points so as to keep the listener interested. Her mind worked over her listener while she told a story, trying to fit her story as best she could to his or her fancy. The manager of the Blue Moon came out of the kitchen and called Sean aside. He whispered something, and Sean’s face drooped as he stuffed his pad and pencil into his apron and passed it all over to his boss. Blake moved toward them quickly, and Sean had his apron back on within five minutes, promising his manager that he would be more careful with his time. Blake apologized to Sean and we ordered our food and drinks at the same time so that none was wasted. I asked her, when Sean left, what she had said to the manager. She told him that Sean had spent twenty minutes convincing her and me not to leave after finding a hair in our tablecloth. She apologized to the manager, and put in a few more good words for Sean’s excellent record of service to their table. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
Her favorite smells haunt me to this day. When we first met there were discussions about smells. I told her my apartment would smell the way I wanted it to smell, and she could make her apartment a fruit if she wanted. I liked incense; I lean toward a more dark personality. She enjoyed natural smells like citrus or vanilla or pumpkin. Eventually we compromised. Her apartment…oh. Nevermind.
The last time I saw Blake was at an art show on Fifth in some very old hotel lobby. She walked up behind me and placed her hands over my eyes. I turned around, confused, and noticed her ears had gotten pierced again. “You got two more piercings. They look really sweet.” She thanked me genuinely for the compliment, apologized for not having any time to talk, but she had places to be. She walked out the door with a young man about six feet and two inches; I’d say one hundred and eighty-five pounds. I could have taken him. I’m only five feet and ten inches; maybe one hundred sixty-five. I could have taken him.
I write her letters. Why? I don’t know. We’re very good friends as far as I know. She still informs me of her status every once in a while, what she’s up to, who she’s hangin’ out with, her new favorite hobbies. Most people know all this stuff about her. They know about her rules and how her voice gave me chills and how she could talk her way out of anything. They don’t know that the young man she was with was once a friendly acquaintence of ours, and that she and Lisa don’t speak anymore. Nobody knows that after I’m finished writing this I’m going to visit the bathroom and throw up for an hour or so. She holds my small heart in her delicate fingers, remember?
