I’m Your Man

How is it possible to have another body on your skin and still feel bones alone?

You’re an angel, I’m a dog

The bookstore was a hole in the wall; the entrance looked chewed out by a beaver colony. Raw edges around the door, jagged wood jutting out like exposed wiring. Inside, you thumbed through titles together. His hand on the small of your back. Your thumb in his pocket. The owner watched with mild interest. Reaching the Didion shelf, which one is your favorite, E says, low. The urge to collapse and be caught, to purr in his arms, to go back to the apartment and do that thing he likes, done already for an hour this morning.

Three years ago. Where has the time gone? Your friend who was getting married that summer has a baby now. Reaching out, using your nickname for him to ask, if, on your return to New York, he wants to hang. He replies almost instantly. Calls you “Zach” when he used to call you “Zachary.” The indecency of this, a betrayal of itself. He is dating someone. Hopes all is well.

What did you expect? Since your last intermission, there was the image of him in the apartment above the laundromat, that hot, stuffy shoebox. Tending his mushrooms in the closet, playing guitar, caterwauling his dreadful songs. There. Waiting for you. To show up and interfere. You forget about him, until the yearning kicks in on lonely nights when all you need is his possibility, then voila, he appears. There. Fussing in the kitchen. Fixing you a plate. Forgetting you loathe coriander. Talking through you.

Or you’re a dog, and I’m your man

At an Izakaya with one of your oldest friends, it was one of those nights. Like a virus, loneliness multiplies. She spoke of some guy who couldn’t be hers. You felt a gulf grow between you, each nursing a vision of love in your head, translating it specifically to be said aloud, leaving out key details that may reveal yourselves in the unright light.

You said: maybe E is my person. And with some satisfaction; like he was already yours, just waiting for you to realize. You were very magnanimous in your imagination: Yes, I can compromise on the fact that he’s a total fucking weirdo with an underexplored rage issue, and a general temperament likely to befuddle my friends and make me miserable.

Your friend, horrified, asks: but, why? Because she knows. She was there when it started. You took the AmTrak from Moynihan to Back Bay and she picked you up in her SUV on a sticky, sunny day. At her favorite bar, you ordered $1 oysters and drank spicy margaritas. He facetimed. It was four days of knowing him and still, you left your friend of twelve years at the table, to answer his call. I miss you, is all he wanted to say.

You believe me, like a god

The next day, you woke in her ground-floor apartment. Morning light came through the net curtains, casting a heavenly glow on the red brick walls. You took a selfie, drew a stick man next to you in bed, sent it to E. Wish you were here. Later, your friend locks her only bathroom by accident. It’s Sunday. The locksmith won’t come. You facetime E. He calmly instructs you to resolve the jam.

This is the sexiest thing he can do, be of service in this way. You, who are so out of touch with the corporeal, lost in the secret garden of your mind, tending the verdure, watching it grow. Someone like you needs someone like him. His senses, so loud and incorrigible. Sweat drives him crazy, the urge to piss an unyielding demand. He knows how to treat poison ivy, what plants are edible, how to survive in the Canadian wilderness with no cell coverage, just his brother, father, and a canoe.

You think of all the later times; when you are fifty, sixty, seventy, tucked away in a cabin somewhere, maybe Maine? You: writing at a grand, mid-century desk, in a brown leather Eames chair. Him: outside, chopping wood, mending things.

Can we each, in a simple sense, fill the other’s void?

It is your fifth day knowing him.

In the yearning, all realities are passable. In reality, there are clues. The fit he pitched on the tennis court with his friend over something childish; stomping away like Rumpelstiltskin. Which struck you as silly, funny, even. Immature. And when you relayed this to him he shot back with venom: you think I’m some fucking freak who doesn’t know how to fucking behave.

You thought that. Still do. You wonder: What kind of freak he has shacked up with, who will compliment his ‘paintings’ which are a borderline offensive impression of Aboriginal dot art, and tell him that, yes, it’s a great idea to self-release the melodyless song you wrote about a seagull, sung in your best worst Bob Dylan voice.

And yet. The nagging feeling. Will this freak do that thing he likes? What you did for an hour that morning. Wasn’t E tender, wasn’t he kind? Didn’t he take care of you?

I destroy you like I am

A separate vision: it is November. Rain splicing down outside your dorm window decorates the sill with sparkling dewdrops. The room is like a sheepskin glove on a summer’s day. Slide the window open a touch to offset the central heating. Cool air flushes your cheeks crimson. M is coming over. Stash what you don’t want him to see: pills, a box of goldfish, expensive moisturizer.

September hung around like an afterthought when you first saw him. Thin mop of wiry, mousy blond hair. Long, equine face. Breakable frame. You made eye contact, briefly, passing the willow tree. Pinched your thumb hard to stop the smile.

He has a lot of friends. Strange, given the first semester has barely started. His friends are faultlessly ironic; as if the suggestion of real life is absurd, the rest of us characters in a play they analyze. Septum piercings. Jelly shoes. Shaved heads. Ugly stick and pokes. Knock at the door. One last look in the mirror: pronounced eyebags, missed a spot shaving under the left nostril, sideburns scraggly and unkempt.
Hi, he says at the door.
Hi back.
Gesture towards your room, he drops his backpack on the floor. You stand on opposite sides, against lofted beds. Adversaries. M fingers your roommate’s perfume bottles.
Pomegranate Noir, he reads off the label.
Are these expensive?
Yes, you say.
Sprays it all over himself, pointing to the open suitcase on the floor.
Going somewhere?
Flying to Dublin for Thanksgiving.
Nice.
He talks about his friends a lot. Like he’s never had a group. But you have. Remember, last summer with friends from home; bronze-backed, growing golder in Samui’s noon-day sun. Duty-free Grey Goose guzzled in the first two hours at the hillside villa, overlooking the bay. How the sky melted every night; magenta, tangerine, indigo. So many stars. Blue cocktails in red buckets at Green Mango. Tequila Sunrises and Pad Thai at Arc Bar. Back at the villa from Green Mango, can’t make it inside from the driveway. Someone throws up. The rest of you supine under the twinkling sky, waiting for dawn, listening for the Koel bird, smoking cigs, together.

Subconsciously, did you know it was already over? Scattered across the world, now. Three continents at least. Half of you no longer speak. Parts of different groups, but never fully—not like this.

Then, forever was a given.

I’m sorry I’m the one you love

M’s seeing someone casually. You knew this. But you didn’t know it was a girl. Her name is Jenny. He says. The hairs prickle on the back of your neck. You don’t like to share and don’t know how to compete. The small talk dwindles. M grabs his backpack as if to leave.
Where do you think you’re going? You tell more than ask.
He moves closer.
Nose to nose, cerulean eyes blinking together in the amber light.
The exit sign above your bed shines red and urgent.
Maybe I’ll stay for a while, he says.
He leans in close, your lips part, teeth clattering together.

When M is gone, you take stock in the mirror. Black and blue clouds form at your clavicle. Trace them gently, feel the soreness of the bruise, pinch the broken capillaries. Go downstairs for a cigarette, without looking up from your phone. Tap through his pictures over and over, memorizing the wonky eyes and sharp nose. Someone shoulders by in frustration. Realize you’re standing in the doorway. Phone in your pocket now, wandering into the parking lot. Tarmac glazed like a donut, slick and shining from the wet. Little particles fall and dissipate on your shoulder. Crane your neck upwards to watch the white speckles dance and flutter, coming down with no hurry.

It is snowing.
This is your first snow.

No one will ever love me like you again

E is just a bit older than you but it seems like he knows everything. Brokerage accounts. How to grill an Amberjack. The way to shave so you don’t get ingrowns on your neck. There is some answer in him. A solution he is not even aware of. God said so at the Old Cathedral. Sticky thighs against mahogany pews, your hand in his, the organ humming in agreement. When you are having sex, and your fever spikes, he says:
Hey, now. We can stop. Let’s stop.
A kindness you hadn’t known. Wipes the sweaty fringe out of your face, kisses you chastely, gets in the shower.
No one has said, Hey, now. We can stop, before.
Later, in the shower, you lay hands on him. Cupping his face between your palms, squeezing his shoulders, stroking his stomach, traveling further down. Seeing if you can intuit this message through touch. Talking does not help. He won’t listen. To be frank, he bores you. Wouldn’t have made it past the second date if you didn’t need a place to crash to ride out this Covid and miss your friend’s wedding. But here you are; divine, sentenced, waiting for the cloud that blocks the sun.

So when you leave me, I should die

After Thanksgiving, M is back. You are what I’m secretly thankful for, he texted from the dinner table. Leaves his backpack on the floor. You pick it up and place it on the desk chair.
You should learn to take care of your stuff.
What if I don’t care about my stuff?
Then you shouldn’t be allowed to have any.
He thinks this is funny, hoists himself onto the lofted single, pats the space beside him.
You move quickly, furious, furtive motions. A hand clawing out, coming up for air.
Lying on your bed when it’s over, fingers interlaced, panting a little.
Where were you before you came here? You ask.
With Jenny.
Oh. How was that?
She can’t get wet and won’t let me kiss her.
This makes you feel too good. He looks on, trying to decipher your thoughts.
You tell him that he smells like her.
I can fix that.
Jumps off the bed, body glistening under the red exit sign. He is made of strange shapes, protruding belly from spinal surgery, spindly arms longer than his torso.
He spritzes Pomegranate Noir, hops back in bed.
Better now?
Much.
Kissing your neck gently. Holding your hand tight. The image of him and Jenny will not dissolve. Does he breathe on her like this. Does he leave marks on her as well.
Does she know about me? The question slips out loud.
No, I don’t think she should.
Right.
He makes his way down your body with his mouth and you think back to when you gave it over to nameless strangers in public bathrooms at midnight.

How is it possible to have another body on your skin and still feel bones alone?

I deserve it, don’t I?

You try to outrun the question of E.
Not really the question of him, but what he means, why you care and don’t.
Singapore steals by in snatches of glass and yellow, pink, green neon light.
Why do you feel like it’s a girl? This someone he’s dating.
Trying not to mow down the pedestrians.
Remember his backstory: dated a girl for two long, miserable years. Conservative(ish) family. The desire to live close to them. In Ohio. Would it not be practical to just, suck it up? As many have done before. Outsourcing his need to get fucked to headless torsos on an app, once in a while. Otherwise accomplishing what the men before him have done so competently: child rearing, giving up booze, retreating to the forest to commune with manliness.
Sweat in your eyes, mixed with sunscreen, stinging your lenses.
It makes sense. But where do you fit? There is a necessity for the exacto knife to your face in his scrapbook. Forget the tuna steaks sizzling in the pan, your feet crossed in his lap, hand in his hair on Sunday afternoon, goosebumps on his left leg when you touched him. And that thing he liked.
He saw God, then, too.
Doubling over a bench by the river, seeing stars, hands on the granite, throwing up.
He kept asking you to do it again.
Reverential look on his face.
Eyes rolling back, exalted.

I can feel it gettin' near
Like flashlights comin' down the way

Armageddon outside. They call it a nor’easter. Like the monsoons you grew up with, but colder, more violent. Wind whips the last of the fall foliage from left to right on your way to meet Orla for lunch, the sun a mere suggestion in the left corner of a grey sky. Spot her in the pub with a striking girl you’ve never met. Her skin is glassy and smooth, cheekbones high and elegant. You sit and make small talk. The stranger is a bit cold, listening to your menial chat with Orla, who leaves you alone to get a soda.
I just realized I never got your name, you say.
It’s Jenny.
She smiles thinly, right eyebrow arched.
It’s nice to meet you, Jenny.
What’s your Instagram?
She finds you, follows on the spot. You follow her back. She scrolls through and likes a few pictures. Looking at her profile, M stares back at you, wearing his backpack, with all their friends.
That was Halloween, she says, noticing you stopped here.
Oh. Is that your boyfriend?
Not really. Kind of.
Orla returns with her soda. The heat’s on too high in here. You get up clumsily, tripping over the chair. You never took your scarf off. The mohair, a scratchy noose; tightening, tightening. Hurrying out into the midday cold, the wind is howling now; the sun has gone from the gray sky.

One day you’ll figure me out

M: what are you up to?
Z: getting drunk with my friends
M: same. want me to cover over later?
Z: yeah, please do
M: i heard you met jenny today

Too many tequila shots with stolen limes from Chipotle. M knocks at the door, comes in sans backpack, leans against your bed. Rubbing his arms up and down. You smell alcohol on his breath; something sweet and tangy.
How did you hear I met Jenny?
She told me.
I thought she didn’t know about me.
I told her. She’s mad that you don’t like her Instagram posts.
It’s only been a few days.
Well, you should like them.
Don’t tell me what to do.
He smiles a sinister grin and leans in. Kissing differently than before, aggressive. Say the things you can’t speak into his mouth, now, with your tongue: why are you with her, I can do it better, I can make your body sing.
My friends don’t like you. You say, coming up for air.
Is that so? Well, I don’t like them either.
You don’t know them.
They don’t know me.
Conversation devolves into barbs: his friends think you are ridiculous, horrible music taste, obnoxious social media presence, outfits too curated. Seeing double of him, then, room turns upside down, walls melt into the floor, feet made of gelatin.
He storms out. Or you tell him to leave. Whichever. In the bathroom, throwing up until you are almost asleep, lying on the cold tile with rot in the linoleum, wiping vomit from your chin, that sinister grin etched under your skin.

I'll meet judgment by the hounds

M: last night was a lot
Z: it was
M: can we meet tonight?
Z: i’m not sure that’s a good idea
M: please. i want to make it up to you

You ignore his last message and trudge to the cafeteria with your friends. M arrives with Jenny and their cronies while you pile tuna salad onto your plate. They saunter by like alley cats, quietly scoffing and whispering to each other, slinking to the back of the room. Sitting down to eat, the tuna turns to cotton in your mouth. Watchful eyes follow each bite. You spit into your napkin. Your friends sit with disdain and disapproval.
We said this was bad news, one of them broaches.
Completely predictable outcome, another chimes in.
They blabber on and on, recounting your failures, cataloging the ignored signs.
Balling up your fists, digging your nails into your palms, drawing blood.
Fuck this.
Abandoning your salad, darting out of the cafeteria, tearing down Mead Way. It is bitingly cold. The chill snaps at the sliver of skin between your boots and the hem of your jeans, trudging back through the snow to your dormitory.
The trees are weathered and bare, gnarling over the sidewalk. Lampposts flicker softly from the pavement, partially lighting a shortcut through the woods.
Recall your Dante class; the classical depictions of hell. Raging fires. Ravaged souls contorted in agony. Flames at their ankles, threatening to engulf them.
That is not hell.
Hell is the cruelty of the cold. Deadly black ice and howling winds, carrying the debris of nature, flinging its dead around to accost the living. The swollen branch that impales the windscreen. Icy, mucky, seawater that breaches the front door.
Hell is trudging through a pitch black night, falling to your knees alone in a snowstorm, wondering if you are deserving of love.
Beneath the falling snow, some inches away from where you landed, your phone lights up in the dark.

M: Jenny is really uncomfortable about us
M: and I don’t care to hurt her tbh
M: let’s take a break

People always gave me love

By the time you meet Theo, E is a faded bruise. For whatever reason. Just like that.
First, he is hesitant, then, he is like butter. Taller than you, kissing on the street, pushing him back a little, letting him know. The quickness of his tongue—cold—between your lips. Slightly sour breath. Aftertaste from the Mexican lager.
Walking to his car, arm around his waist, his over your shoulders. Your boots clack on the neverending hill while the wind fights back.
Stumbling around the mall in Japantown searching for his park. Leaning over the center console when he pulls up at your hotel in Nob Hill.
The flight tomorrow—I should go, he says.
But you’re already here.
There is no valet parking at the hotel, but you tell him there is, and slip the concierge $50.
Keys, please, sir?
In the harsh yellow light of the elevator, you assess the situation: no sense of style. He admits this as though it is not obvious. Flimsy blue polo, linen pants so creased they ought to be thrown away, stained orange on the buttocks from the bench you commandeered until closing at the patio bar.
You discover his weakness; the neck, the ear. Trace the distance. Show him the stars.
The following day you have a friction rash from his stubble around your lips, on both sides of your jaw. In bed, he shows you his phone: the home button, no socials. Gave up scrolling. Reads only for his PHD. Speaks Chinese. Slight lisp. Dorkier in person than in pictures, selective angles.
This is your favorite part, seeing the gulf between digital and real.
He leaves early tomorrow. Before he goes, you offer to buy him a flight back. Let’s spend a few days cooking, hiking, and doing more of this. He is skeptical, of course, by a perfect stranger’s willingness to insert himself, temporarily but fully, in his life.
You wonder how he sees you. How big is your gulf?
Doesn’t listen to popular music, eyes glazing over a bit when you explain what you do.
The video you distinguishes your ‘real’ Self; less hot, more sexless? Neurotic, a bit?
There is so much (and yet—so little) to assess before you enter a room.
But he has no idea.

T: just got home, packing now
Z: consider my offer?
T: of course

Others were never to blame after all

He ghosts.
Your days in San Francisco flick by like paper in the wind, coming closer to going home and the trouble it brings. Reading Annie Ernaux in the late afternoon sun on the grass in Dolores Park, perfectly warm, not oppressive.
Two girls, maybe in their early twenties, sit on a tapestry like the one in your best friend’s college dorm, sharing a spliff and cherry tomatoes.
An older man reads a paperback, but really, he shows off his long black hair, brushing it lovingly with a wide-tooth comb. A young father in wayfarers with a sharp profile, Kennedy-like, sort-of, makes a buzzing noise at his baby with a pink bow. Beside him, a couple sits with their backs to each other, headphones in, painting the scene before them.
You are an interloper in other people’s real life. A voyeur. Dipping in and out of their mundanity. These people know the street names, how to get home on foot without consulting a screen, where the best takeout sushi is. You try to swallow their lives in one afternoon.

You believe me like a god

On the lawn in Dolores Park, closing your eyes, you could be on the Green in Crinken Glen. Hot sun on the nape of your neck, cold wind nipping at your fingers when a cloud passes. This is an Irish summer. You were an interloper there, too, even as a child. Arriving once a year, hoping for acceptance, never quite getting it.
Except for Luke. Who surely went on to do crime.
Granny called him billy big bollocks. Didn’t like him at all. Not his spiked, frosted tips, nor his sparkling diamond studs. You begged for a pair. Everyone said no.
She didn’t trust you more than she didn’t like Luke. Knew you needed a shepherd, out there beyond her four walls, someone to keep you safe.
For whatever reason, billy big bollocks chose you. The other boys fell over themselves trying to impress him: showing off their bikes, climbing trees, and throwing bottles.
You could never bring yourself to self-flagellate. Not even as a child.
If you were going to impress it was through silence, watching, waiting
And it worked. He led you down the back way to Spar to get Lucozade and Monster Munch and asked Granny for permission first, like your hand in marriage.
This was a well-worn path by teenagers, littered with empty cider cans, cigarette butts, and used condoms.
You thought they were wet balloons; poked one with your shoe.
Luke laughed, said don’t touch that.
Spittle clung to his just-grown incisors, catching the glint of the sun. The diamond earrings twinkled. His peroxide-yellowed hair gleamed.
You’re lucky I’m with you, he says, it gets dicey ‘round here.
If you pretended to be scared, maybe he would hold your hand.
Touch me.
For fuck’s sake, touch me.

I betray you like a man