This week I’m writing from rainy Seattle. My apologies for not mentioning it sooner, it was a last minute idea to come here to visit my parents.

Two days before coming here, the Hot Mess called me and asked if I wanted to grab a drink after work.  “We can drink on the beach near my house,” she explained. “The resort has a bar here and they let you drink on the beach.”

So after work, I made the long drive to Turtle Bay, sitting in traffic for nearly an hour and a half. By the time I pick the Hot Mess up to head down to the bar, it’s dark out.

She’s different tonight, a little distant and pre-occupied. She doesn’t reach for my hand during the short drive to the resort parking lot and instead just asks me about my day without really caring about the answer.

“Are you all right?” I asked, while we walked down to the beach.

“It’s been a bad couple of days,” she sighed.

“Go find us a spot to sit,” I said. “I’ll grab us a drink.”  I tried to remember what she ordered the last time we shared a drink, but instead settled on one of those tourist-y drinks just because it looked girly. I guess this is one of the disadvantages to NOT being in a serious relationship, we don’t come to each other first for any of this stuff.  She had a crappy few days without me even knowing it and strangely, I feel really bad. It’s not that I’m emotionally unavailable, trust me, just that girls like her usually have a long list of people to call before my name comes up.

“Sorry, I have no idea if this is good,” I said, handing her her sweaty drink.

“I’m sure it’s fine–thank you.”

I sat next to her, pushing down into the sand and letting it cover the top of my shoes.  “What’s wrong?”

“My ex called me today.”

“Are you two still friends or something?”

“No, it’s complicated.” She took a long sip of her drink before continuing. “We broke up a couple of months ago. We were together for like…two years.”

I could tell this was going to be a long night and that I’d probably need another drink soon.

She continued, “she was really abusive. This one time she got mad at me for interrupting her while she was playing poker with some friends. So she threw one of those ceramic mugs at my head.”

“That’s fucked up,” I said, swishing my cup around. The ice was already starting to melt. “How long since you two broke up?”

She looked embarrassed. “About a month or so.” Which means they had JUST broken up when we met. “She always told me that she’d kill me if I left her. I asked my friend, Jamie, to pick me up so many times and finally Jamie said, ‘next time you call, we’re leaving, I don’t care. You’re not going back to her.’ And that’s what happened.”

“Well, I’m glad you got out of there. There’s really no excuse to hit your significant other.”

“She called me right before you came,” she said. “Saying how much she missed me and how she’d never hit me again.”

“Ah.” I didn’t know how to respond, so instead I asked, “how do you feel about it?”

“I feel kind of drunk,” she laughed, leaning her head on my shoulder. She wrapped her arm with mine, kissed my cheek, and then jumped up. Nearly toppling over, she exclaimed, “I just want to be free!” She started running towards the water, kicking off her shoes in my direction.

“What are you doing?” I called out.

“Swimming!” she yelled back, running into the water. From what I could tell, she was about mid-calf deep and spinning around.

“Come back here! You don’t have a swimsuit on!”

“I don’t care!” she laughed.

“Do you know how to swim?”

“Not really! Come join me!”

I weighed out my options, then slipped off my jacket, shoes, and socks and walked to the shoreline where the sand and black water met. The Hot Mess looked happy, but I swear I could hear her crying. I rolled up my jeans and followed her, the water feeling surprisingly warm.

“Come on,” I said quietly. “Let’s get out.”

She was dancing in the water, her clothes practically soaking wet.  “Doesn’t this feel good?”

When I got close enough to see her eyes, I could see she had been crying. Her mascara ran down her soft cheeks and onto her neck.  “Come on, let’s get out,” I repeated. “You’re gonna get sick.” I scooped her up in my arms, letting her clothes dampen my own. She leaned her head against my chest, as if counting my breaths.

I put her down near our stuff and I wrapped my jacket around her, then collected the rest of our belongings.  When I stood up, she grabbed me by the front of my shirt to kiss me. This time her lips felt heavy. “Thank you,” she whispered.

On my long drive home, I saw a dead cat on the road. I winced and felt like crap until I got home.

Now I’m typing this entry from my old bed in rainy Seattle. I feel far from my life in Hawaii, but part of me wants to call the Hot Mess and ask about her day.

No Comments » Posted: November 8th 2009
Filed under: Random Thoughts
Tagged In: drunk nights, something's gonna change, the feel of a weighted kiss, the hot mess

So this morning, I go on facebook to see a friend of mine’s status that reads, “LINDA [last name removed] FOR HAWAII STATE REP!!!” Of course there is only one Linda [last name removed] and the friend posted it is actually a mutual friend, so I shouldn’t be so shocked, but the news still threw me.

We haven’t talked for months. I’ve made small attempts to get in touch with her, but after that apology email I sent to her, she’s never written back to me. I’ve been wondering what I did wrong, which I know is pointless, but it’s been eating at me. And it’s like the more time has passed, the more I need to know what I did wrong. I’m not sure if it’s because I want to be on better terms with her or just because I want to be on better terms with most people.

Anyway, so I tried to be polite and ask my friend when she’s running and all that stuff and just now I got this lengthy mass email about Linda running for office and why I should vote for her. Went over her background and where she went to school and I felt…weird. I was overwhelmed with memories of us: her graduation, visiting her at Georgetown, moving to DC, going to her graduation, and then eventually coming back home. Her background was summarized in like three sentences and it made me feel strange. She had told me once she wanted to run for public office and imagined me in the crowd cheering her on.

At the end of the mass email, it said I could email her at her new, professional email address (I guess it was time to shed coffeeshoplinda, since it was a reference to her being a coffee shop lesbian) and I could send contributions to “Friends of Linda [last name removed]” to a PO box in the same zipcode as where I live.

No Comments » Posted: October 27th 2009
Filed under: My Life is Strange

I apologize for being MIA for the past week or so. Things have been really crazy around here. I just found out that I’ll be moving to California later next year for work. I guess working in porn really does pay because my boss offered to pay for all of my moving expenses if I agree to relocate. It’s been a lot to process.

I moved back to Hawaii over a year ago after following theEx here for law school. Everything for her was here, including her family, and there wasn’t much left for me, except for my old life.  And now, it looks like I’ve got a chance to leave, just when the dust is starting to settle for me.

3 Comments » Posted: October 25th 2009
Filed under: My Life is Strange

I called up the Hot Mess last night in hopes of hanging out. For the past couple of weeks now, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head.

“I’m still at work right now, but you should come by. We can go eat after,” she said.

After we hung up, I got dressed, and made the long trek to the lazy surf town of Haleiwa. The Hot Mess worked at this tiny women’s clothing store near the shopping center out there, spending most of her shifts watching music videos on television while tourists stopped in and then soon left in search of  more “authentic” Hawaii clothes.

“Hey there, little guy,” she said when I stepped through the door. She was folding a stack of t-shirts at the register counter, leaning forward to accentuate her long, slender legs.

I turned to see the Pussycat Dolls playing on the television. “Is this what you do all day?”

“Pretty much.” She turned up the volume and bopped her head to the beat. “Fun, I know.”

“What’s with all the cameras?” I asked, pointing at tiny television with split screens of the store.

“The owner put video cameras all over the store,” she explained. “The store never gets really crowded, so  I think the cameras are to watch the employees.” She came around from the counter and kissed me on the cheek. “Follow me.” She grabbed my hand and lead me between two clothing racks of women’s bikinis. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

“Uh, this is awkward,” I laughed. “I don’t want a bikini. Trust me.”

“Just stay there!” she called out, running back towards the register. I lost her between the bloated racks, full with women’s blouses and skirts.

I was staring at a hideous floral bikini top when the Hot Mess reappeared, weaving between the row of racks near me. “So now what?” I asked.

She rushed toward me and kissed me with such intensity that I had to steady myself against the top of the clothing rack. “Well, nice to see you too. Now why am I standing here?”

She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me again, this time longer. “This is one of the only places in the store that you can’t see on camera.”

*     *     *

After the Hot Mess finished work, she suggested we eat at this Mexican restaurant a few blocks from her working place. I had already eaten, so I told her I’d just get a drink and keep her company.

Rosie’s Cantina was practically empty when we stepped through the door and it was freezing. The host sat us at a table against the window so we could watch the sunset, but it was still cold. I could see the Hot Mess’ bony shoulders shaking as she huddled into herself for warmth.

I took off my jacket and handed it to her across the table. “Here. I’m okay.”

She looked shocked and a little confused at first. “What?”

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” She took my jacket and draped it over her shoulders, confirming how tiny she really was.

“Wow, I didn’t even know people like you existed,” she said, surprised. She pushed her nose into the chest and then smiled to herself. “It smells like you, like your cologne.”

We both ordered drinks and when the waitress returned, she only looked at the Hot Mess.

“Hey guys,” the waitress interrupted. I don’t know why she even bothered with the plural since she didn’t even acknowledge me. “Ready to order?”

“Not yet,” the Hot Mess answered, trying to quickly go through the items on the menu. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Well, you’re really pretty,” the waitress sputtered out. “I’ll just come back in a bit.”

The Hot Mess smiled graciously, with no hint of embarrassment or surprise at the woman’s compliment. “Aww, why thank you.”

I stirred my drink and thought about tearing up my napkin into tiny pieces, tossing them across the table, and then pouring salt all over it.   The Hot Mess shot me a look.  I put the salt shaker away. “What?”

“That face–why are you making the face?” she pointed. She took a long sip of her drink and I watched the swirl of alcohol and juice dance together in her glass.

“I’m not making a face,” I answered. “Silly.”

She stood up, then leaned over and squeezed my hand. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go to the restroom.”

When the Hot Mess returned, she was smirking. “You’d never believe what just happened.”

“What?”

“So when I came out of the bathroom, our waitress stopped me and told me to come by sometime. Then she said to stop by some other bar because she works there and wants to see me.” The Hot Mess looked secretly (or rather, not so secretly) pleased or flattered.  She furrowed her brow. “You’re making that face again.”

“What face?”

“That face.  I know what it is,” she exlcaimed, jumping from her seat to point at me. “You’re jealous!”

My cheeks started to feel hot. “What?”

“You’re jealous! Jealous of that stupid waitress.” She shook her head and then smiled tenderly at me. “What are you getting all jealous about? I’m sitting here, eating with you.” She reached across the table to touch my hand. “You’re so cute when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad!” I declared. “It’s just–how rude of her!”

“Well, yeah. But whatever, she’s tacky. It’s not a big deal. This happens to me a lot,” she shrugged. There was something slightly off-putting about her answer, but the waitress returned before I could ask her to clarify.

The vulture waitress again only looked at the Hot Mess. I mean, I couldn’t blame her, the Hot Mess looked exactly like how her nickname implied, but it was still rude. I could tell the Hot Mess just loved the attention. Whenever the waitress flirted with her (sometimes extremely inappropriately), she was still polite and gave the air that things were still open between them. It was a strange thing to watch. I went between feeling proud and then suddenly uncomfortable and insecure in a matter of sentences.

I was glad to get out of there after our meal. I held open the door for the Hot Mess and when I felt the cool night air on my skin, I felt like I could breathe again.

“That waitress was inappropriate.” I said as soon as we got outside.  “I should have poured salt on our table before we left.”

The Hot Mess laughed and then linked arms with me. She kissed my cheek. “It’s fine, at least she gave us a discount!”

“Because she was running on the assumption that you might visit her at the bar later,” I added. “She had such a smug look on her face.”

“She did, and that’s why I don’t  feel bad about the discount. I mean, who thinks it’s appropriate to hit on someone while they’re already on a date with someone else.”

I didn’t know how to process her reasoning, so I just smiled at the fact that she said we were on a date together. “A date, huh? Is that what this is?”

“I’d say so,” she answered. “We went to dinner, you offered me your jacket, and I’m hoping for a good night kiss. Seems like a date to me.”

It was getting late and I had to work the next day, so I told her it’d probably be best if I took her home. While driving back to her house, our conversation reached a comfortable silence and one of my favorite songs filled the car.

“Your lips come as some surprise,
That they would want to come and meet mine,
They never taste like the last time,
Your lips come as some surprise.”

I parked the car in the guest space and offered to walk her to her door.

“We have to go the back way,” she explained, checking the floor to make sure she didn’t drop anything. “My parents are super nosy and they don’t like the fact that I’m gay.”

“I don’t have to walk you to the door,” I said. “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“We’ll just go the back way. My bedroom is on the first floor, so I actually have a sliding patio door I can go through. Come on, let’s go.”

It was getting late and most of the residential area she lived in was already asleep. The condos hummed quietly as we made our way through the parking lot to her house. When we reached the end of the lot, she grabbed my hand and led me up an uneven flight of stairs and  then around a tall bush, between a small space between an adjacent bush.  She brought her finger to her mouth to quiet me and we tip-toed through her tiny yard to the patio deck.

She checked to see if the door was unlocked and left it cracked open. “Thank you for tonight,” she whispered. She wrapped her slender arms around my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. Something felt different about this kiss. It felt new. Or maybe I felt new. Who knows.

5 Comments » Posted: October 17th 2009
Filed under: The Good
Tagged In: inappropriate flirting, some surprise, the cake sale, the goodnight kiss, the hot mess

Lately I’ve been feeling like I’ve been seeing ghosts.

The other day I was at Borders and from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw theEx walking through the fiction section. It’s not that I wanted to see her or anything, I just thought I did.  But when I peeked over from where I was standing, I realized it wasn’t her. This has happened to me more than once in the past few weeks and every time I’m wrong, I feel a little like I’ve seen a ghost.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, still on my side of the bed, and I’m suddenly aware of how big this apartment feels when I’m alone.

I know this sounds a little morbid and maybe melodramatic, but it feels a little like she’s died. The other day while cleaning my apartment, I found a box of her checks under a pile of mail. I thought about calling her to let her know, but remembered that I couldn’t (we’re not on speaking terms). I didn’t have the heart to shred and toss her checks, so I put the box on an end table in the living room.

The thing is, I don’t want to get back with her. I know that breaking up was for the best, it just feels as if she’s been suddenly lifted out of my life, only leaving behind a box of checks, an old sleep shirt, and her handwriting on the tab of a folder to keep my car records. It’s a strange and unfamiliar feeling, and when I think about her now, her face is slowly starting to blur.

The only one who seems unphased by these changes is my cat. Perhaps because she’s always been my partner in crime, she never looks behind me for someone else when I come home from work. She sleeps on theEx’s side of the bed as if it were always her side and after I’ve come home, she never waits by the front door for someone else.

I’m grateful for this.

No Comments » Posted: October 14th 2009
Filed under: Random Thoughts
Tagged In: ghosts, i've been walking with a ghost, moving on, theEx