Sunday, November 4, 2012


No one has ever emerged into a doorway quite like him. With a box in his hands he arrived in your dorm room, calling himself your roomate. As time went on, through restless nights, lying awake, listening to him toss and turn, you grew fond of the trivial things. The way he would chew on one side of his mouth; the comical way his eyebrows would lift as he told a funny story and the relentless charm that effortlessly shined through his smile. Heterosexual was the protocol that had been established. Frat house parties and tales of women littered your wishful thinking. And there were those moments, when all seemed possible. Candy for your delusions. He arrived in the room damp, wrapped in a towel as he prepared for bed. You, at your desk, pretending to read a biology textbook as you scanned his anatomy with your peripheral vision. He was a vision. A case of diamonds on a mountain top you couldn't climb to reach. You'd notice how he'd stroke his hair back in Sociology, you even knew the scent of his after shave. It wasn't until graduation, that a right foot met a left one. A knee caressed another knee. As tassel emancipated itself into the air, you were caught up in his stare. The high voltage appeared to be in vain, Soon ushered away by a life which would arrest you. You were obsessed with his ghost which haunted your fantasies, But he was a geographical impossibility. As you lay with nameless bodies who'd be gone by morning, an ocean of regrets inundated your mind. The void could never fill, no matter how many gay clubs you'd frequent, or how many photos you'd masturbate to. Missed opportunities seem more obvious now. A quick search on Facebook even slaps you in the face as you become stunned at your own idiocy. Yet now, staring at the friend request button, you don't know what to say to him if you were to send him a message. You hit the button and five minutes later, accepted. Ten minutes later, a message appears. "I've always thought of you. Glad we have reconnected," He writes. The simplicity is surprisingly overwhelming. With each day, the messages grow more profound and numbers are exchanged. The day arrives when you've agreed to reunite. He flies to Philadelphia, where you now work as a realtor. It's a warm, early October day. You stand by the Liberty Bell observing every human that comes your way. You wonder if he'll look the same. Every gust of wind sends tingles down your spine. Every new face that arrives makes your fingers shake even more. But as those familiar hazel eyes appear before you, as he smiles right into you, sending shockwaves of charm with each dimple that forms, your body relaxes. You feel like a lost puppy that is finally home. As a strand of his hair blows in the wind, he reaches up and strokes it back like he used to do in Sociology. He walks up to you, bold and beautiful as his image blurs the surrounding scenery. He reaches for your hand. His olive skin against your carmel hand, interlocked. No words need to be said. He's got the eyebrows that will make you both crack up laughing. One facial expression, an inside joke about how you looked when you tasted a concoction at a party. Finally, you both laugh again. Dimples again. In front of that bell, you boldly hold hands in a way fraternity life wouldn't allow you to. There's that scent of aftershave again. No more mask. Liberty at last.

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