Back Again

I told you I was bad at this.

Keeping up with the posting, I mean. It slipped into the back of my mind one day, and I just left it there. I need to make an effort to post daily. New goal.

It's good to have new goals during changes, I think, like this change, the change from hot to cold, from dry to wet, from summer to winter.

Other Changes In My Life:
Roommate: The Barry changed to Chris and L'abri, who then became Chris and Deb, who will soon just be Deb.
Pets: no pets at all became Lowell and Halifax
Fella: The Texan left, and then Boston strolled into my life. Well, I strolled into his. More on that in a bit.

There have been other changes...haircuts, trips home and not home, new bars, new routines. Nothing is stagnant.

When the Texan and I split up, my world focus sort of shifted. Around that time, I'd been spending time with him, AK, and her roommate, who was my beer brewing partner. We'll call him Robot, just because the picture that shows up on my phone when he calls is him in a robot head. We split up around the time his ex-girlfriend, and AK's best friend moved to the city. This wasn't officially the reason for our discontinuation, but based on events that happened afterwards, I can't believe it was completely unrelated.

Still, we've both made peace with it, and moved on to other folks, so it was for the best, whyever it happened.

But the aftermath. I had some of the whiskey poets living with me, and I spent a lot of time with them. I flew home for my brother's wedding, and spent some time with an old friend who helped me see several different lights. We spent a lot of time drunk together, laughing, reminiscing. Watching each other. We're both exceedingly skilled at eye contact.

The week before I left for the wedding, I was nosing around on this great site: beermenus.com and saw that Whole Foods was doing a Smuttynose tasting. I remembered really enjoying their spring seasonal ale, Hanami Ale, and the Shoal's Pale Ale had long since become my go-to six pack at the bodega, plus it was free. I had nothing to lose.

So a coworker and I headed up there. We had a pint in a pub, met her boyfriend, and then ducked into the grocery. That's where I met Boston.

He was standing behind a high table, higher even than his high hips, looking exceedingly distressed. His hair was too long, and curled, and tangled over his eyes, his hands like birds from bottles to tasting cups to waiting hands and back. He answered questions steadily, well rehearsed. We took our first beers, going light to dark. Letting him guide us. We were just faces in the crowd, a number to countdown until he could bolt.

Until my coworker mentioned that I brewed beer. His eyes lit up, he engaged me. He leaned, he ignored other people. We sparked.

He poured samples out to me for three hours, grinned and indulged me when I got a little tipsy and started instructing his customers, pushing his beer on them. I ducked away from him when L'Abri showed up, whispered about him with my head pushed to hers while I bought a growler of his beer, and bottles of others. He was busy when we started to leave, and in a move brought on by the boldness of alcohol and the way he trained those eyes on me, I asked if we could get a drink some time. He flipped me his card. I tucked it in my pocket, touched it like a talisman all the way home.

Home for the wedding the next week, and while I didn't forget about him, I definitely wasn't thinking about him. I was thinking about handsome my brother looked, how much like a grownup, how I wasn't going to cry (but cry I did) when my new sister-in-law walked down the aisle. Drinking and dancing and playing with my little sister took up all my time.

Back in the city though, and my coworker asked if I'd contacted him. So once again, in an uncharacteristic move, I emailed him. Scuffed my feet, said I wasn't sure he'd remember me, asked him to go out for a drink on Wednesday night to a hip little beer bar I'd never been to. He responded, cool, put me off a night because he had to work. Asked if he could pick the place. Said his friend owned it.

So Wednesday night was spent planning with Chris. He picked out my outfit, advised me on date behaviors. Told me not to put out on the first night. Told me I was in charge of what happened. Told me to put on more eyeshadow, and then smudged it properly for me.

So Thursday he sent me out the door dressed in orange snakeskin high heels, tight jeans and a skimpy tee shirt. It was hot and my hair was down, sticking to the back of my neck. The Spanish boys catcalled, tried to pick me up. I smiled and kept walking.

We met at the train station, and he apologized for being late, brought me a peace offering in the form of this. He was impressed by my shoes.

On the train, we talked (he talked) about Vermont and skiing and college. Confessed that he wasn't completely sober. We wandered the streets of Brooklyn, wound up at this little place. I let him order my beer, we snagged a table in the front of the place, and started talking.

There was some of that bullshit talking, and this man made me work. I leaned, I lingered, I watched him through half-lidded eyes. I laid my hand on his leg. He was taken aback. Shocked. Uncertain. We talked about his dad being sick, and my brother dying, where life was taking us. Our resistance to the city. Our mutual need for green and open spaces.

He went off on a tangent about something, and I was laughing, teasing him for lecturing me. He put on a serious face, and said, "Okay, Erin, one more lecture. Life's too short not to try." And then, finally, his mouth was on mine, and his hand was on my cheek, my neck, and my fingers were in his hair, and I was lost.

And found.

After that, it was like a wall fell between us. We became self-aware, aware of each other. He said he didn't know it was a date, didn't even know that I liked men. I insisted.

We stayed until the bar closed. And took a car to his place. And sat up, talked all night. He walked me home in the morning, and I didn't wear my shoes. The sun was coming up, and the glass on the sidewalk glinted like diamonds.