He was minty and tall, his sweater scratchy, and I didn’t expect a hug back because maybe that wasn’t allowed or something, but then I found out what absurdly long arms are nice for, which mainly seems to be their ability to get themselves all the way around decent-sized and grateful women.
He hugs tight, too.
The heat has made my little row house almost a little too warm, but I haven’t been completely warm all day so I let it run, sinking into the silly-looking papasan chair my mom insisted on getting me for my place, and as usual, she’s right because it is such a comfortable cradle for my round butt and exactly right for when I want to rest my body but my mind isn’t ready to sleep.
I snuggle into my silly chair, where I can watch the snow through the living-room window and watch for his avatar to highlight, letting me know he’s there.
I start my message like I always do.
What did you see today?
We exchange a few stories, and then C writes,
When I was a kid the neighbors had this bulldog, Sergeant. They were an older couple and couldn’t give him the exercise he needed, so they paid me five dollars a week to exercise him.
C has been feeling nostalgic this evening. He posted a picture of a bee on a flower, the yellow-and-black fur of the bee so sharp I wonder why I’ve never tried to pet a bee before.
When I ask him about it, he sends a long and rambling message about honeysuckle vines and the best way to pull out the stamens and taste the nectar, something his grandma had taught him.
His other picture has taken me a long time to guess what it is, it’s so close-up, everything in the frame is black and shiny and convoluted like grainy leather, and he finally gives in and tells me it’s a dog’s nose.
So now I am reading his messages about Sergeant and how he was an epic dog and how it all turned out like that Henry Huggins story by Beverly Cleary where the dog has to choose who his real owner is.
That book has always made me cry.
I look out my three living-room windows, curtains open to show off the view of the swirling snowflakes, and there is now a wall of harsh orange light, and shadows all around the edges. The orange light is from the streetlights outside, and my strange night vision is making giant halos around every beam of it, obliterating the ability to focus on anything distinct.
I keep forgetting that before I sit down at my computer in the evenings, or with a laptop, I should turn lights on inside the house. The dark sneaks up on me in the winter and it’s not good for my eyes, just as it’s not good for anyone’s eyes, to stare into the backlit screen while everything else is dark.
Though everybody else’s eyes can adjust to the newly dim room, whereas I will stumble and trip until I find my way to bed.
Evan wants me to put my indoor lights on timers, so that I don’t have to remember, so that my environment accommodates me automatically and it’s safer.
Evan really likes those words. Accommodate. Safe.
Even his hugs are safe and accommodating.
Apertr’s messenger dings.
Did you see that it’s snowing?
Sometimes, there are these little reminders that C’s in the same city.
I look at the orange haze where the view used to be.
When I came home there were a few snowflakes. Has it picked up?
I’ve told him stories about hiking around Italy with my mom, about my attempts to learn to cook. I’ve told him my favorite color is blue and that I’ve read Jude Deveraux’s A Knight in Shining Armor dozens of times. I’ve told him funny stories about people I’ve watched on the bus.
His answers have almost always been that he wants to know more.
But I’ve never told him my name. He calls me Lincoln, and what he tells me are the same mixed bag of stories and confessions that lead to almost nothing except weird intimacy and daydreams.
I’ve never had an imaginary friend, even though I’m an only child.
It’s snowing pretty hard, now. You must already be in bed.
Yes, let’s say that. Let’s also say—
First snowy night of the year.
Just so that he might say—
If only I was there with you.
I stare into the orange haze. Brush my fingertips over the keys, just brushing, unconsciously practicing how Evan tried to show me once how braille is read before I shoved the practice plates back at him and left early.
If only you were.
I ignore the blur of the room and focus on the neat square of our message window.
Under the covers, completely naked, when the rest of the room is cold and it’s started to get quiet outside is the best kind of naked.
Tonight, he’s right.
We’d have to keep our bodies really tight together, I write. Our legs and arms all around each other. So the covers stay on.
I’d want to touch you.