Note 7

I said I love you first. As in I love you. As in I thank you. As in I see you. As in I care for you. As in I appreciate you. As in I love you. Not, as in I am in love with you.

I couldn’t be. My heart was (is) still rusted over. Your oil started to rub it off and freeness felt wonderful. But, it was also quite scary, honestly more than scary, way more. It was downright terrifying like the scary St. Patrick’s Day movie they played every year on BET. It was a nightmare to fall for you. What if I could never get up?

***

We matched on an app called HER. I complimented your tightly curled natural hair. You complimented my fresh fade. We thanked each other. We made small talk. I swayed on one side of my friend’s futon–as I had made a recent, unexpected cross country move from Michigan to LA without a home. You asked if I wanted to go out.

I was late. I hate being late. But, I noticed you as soon as I saw this two-sided pastel (half pink-half baby blue) felt-like, long-sleeve jacket as you waited next to the museum–my job. I jogged from across the street, more embarrassed than ever. We embraced, your dimples making themselves known right away. It was nice, sweet. I was nervous. I could tell you were too. I led the way to the inside of the museum, greeting everyone along the way like I did every morning as we entered.

I took you to the fourth level first, knowing one of your hobbies was drawing, figuring that Miyazaki would be the best place to start. You reveled in the detail of the artwork, the way he made picturesque landscapes from pencil and paper. I introduced you to every coworker I saw while inside–and on each remaining floor–your dimples reappeared and I was smitten. My coworkers smiled as you spoke. I felt the genuine generosity of your connections. That real love, that Southern love, emptied out of you and took rest between you and everyone you conversed with.

I kept bumping into you, kept apologizing for the unintentional touch. You merely smiled– oh, those dimples–and said you didn’t mind the touch. My heart began to beat. I was nervous, again. I felt that real love, that Southern love, from the warmth of your voice, it’s timbre like a singing bird’s: soft and sweet. My heart beat too close to my skin as we walked through the rest of the exhibit. Whatever they called it in rom-coms, at weddings, and on TV shows I felt.

I led you to the third level and had to admit my trauma. I couldn’t start in the first gallery because of it. You went alone, while I entered from the exit–I’d meet you in the middle. I passed a coworker before searching for you. I gleamed as I spoke of you. My anxiety rose as I thought about our chemistry. My mouth grinned to show the wide gap between my two front teeth–which you loved. I finished with my coworker and looked for you in the next gallery. You marveled as you viewed the animation process. I stood behind you, marveling at your marveling. I lost you briefly in Encounters–it was so dark–but found you a couple seconds later. Your dimples jumped as you laughed when I said I thought I’d lost you.

We moseyed down to level two. You loved Mr. Lee’s room. The color. The music. The Soul. And got tired after I told you about the other side rooms in Oz. You admired the intricateness of the costumes. I walked behind you and blushed when my coworkers made faces. I watched you take in every stitch, every stream of ribbon, every detail that made up each item of clothing. You knew how clothes could make a person (I’m still sorry for you know what). You knew how they could change a person. We breezed through the last hallway of a gallery. Your feet were getting tired and I was too. We stepped outside to see the sun on its way to setting. Nearly 4 hours had passed.

I told you that I wanted a partner, a relationship, at the sushi place in Sherman Oaks. You said you didn’t know what you wanted. I knew you’d already fallen for me, but feared the rapid pace. I told you that if I felt like this would work out, I’d cut off everyone else as soon as I knew. You smirked at me. I knew you’d already fallen for me. I’d already fallen for you. We finished our sushi and your dimples just couldn’t go away. You convinced me to go to a Black, queer club. I only said yes, because I desperately wanted to dance with you. We went back to Jordan’s house–I wanted to get high before going, since you already were. I got my goodies. We got in a Lyft. The driver was gay. We were too.

We got to the club and they were at capacity. We laughed as we watched some studs from across the way about to get into a fight–toxic masculinity rising throughout their loins. We danced as we waited for the Lyft driver. I opened the door to the Tesla…correction, the maskless Lyft driver opened the fancy door. His energy was off. I could tell you felt it too. I was too scared to ask if he had a mask.

We got back to Jordan’s and decided to watch Spirited Away–you’d been a Miyazaki fan before I’d even regretfully (embarrassingly) knew who he was. You put me on. I said my shoulder was cold, it was corny, but cute–maybe even a little smooth–and you leaned against it. I felt a current hit my body like a nerve, it connected with yours simultaneously. Maybe the movies were right. I asked you if you felt it. You said yes.

I didn’t comprehend anything I watched. My high was too excessive for that. You said it was time for you to get home. And I pouted at the prospect of you leaving my shoulder, my arms, me, for the night. I paused the film, you called yourself a Lyft, and I told Jordan I was going to walk you to your car. I watched your dimples rise as the lilac light shone from your approaching Lyft. The man parked. I stared. You smiled. I said I really wanted to kiss you, but was afraid it was too soon. You shook your head and asked why while slowly removing your mask. My eyes bulged–I wasn’t expecting that–and I licked my lips. I gave yours a quick, soft peck then followed up with another, firmer one. You smiled. I smiled awkwardly back. You got in your car. The lilac light faded away. I shook my head and thought: Wow, that was a terrible kiss, Dierra.

***

I’ve thought of many ways of ending this, but could barely find an answer. I’d like to end it with the good, but somehow the good’s been intertwined with the bad. I leave the good above for what it is. I’ll let it sit in all its splendor. I’ll give it space to settle.

The bad is the good and the good is the bad and nothing was ever the same.

***

When I told you that my life was a mess, I’m not sure if you knew that meant I was a mess, too. Perhaps I should have clarified how the two connected, how my emotions were the offspring of dysfunction. Even if I’d broken it down to you like you were five years old, you wouldn’t have understood because even I didn’t understand. You’d just have to see it.

I knew it was coming. I’m not sure if I warned you. I was sad. I resented the love She gave you. I no longer had the capacity to love you like you deserved. I was broken and didn’t have enough left. I think you started to notice. You did.

I ended things the day after my birthday–I didn’t want to do it after you’d spent my birthday with me and assumed all was well. I cared too much about you to do something like that. I cried the entire twenty minutes to your house. My arms could barely wipe my eyes in time. I cried when you came outside. You knew. You knew when I texted you and said I needed to tell you something in person. I held you and cried. I apologized all in the same breath. I wept in your arms. Your tears touched my head and slowly swam through the hole in my heart.

***

I love you deeply and dearly. I think some part of me always will. You affirmed me in a way I’ve never felt before, one filled with unconditional love, care, and softness. You loved everything about me I hated. And my Sadness broke your heart.

I’ll forever be sorry.

Peace, Love, and Hair Grease

–Barlow