Bikes and Boys
After eight months single in Seattle, I am finally entering that delicious phase of spending time with lots of different men. They are men that I work with and men that I have dinner with and men that text me at 2 in the morning. I love them all.
I love the different sides of me that can come out, inspired by different people. I am sometimes more shocked to find consistencies. Like, I really like dropping shocking confessionals, sotto voice, a few drinks in. And rushing intimacies. Years ago, in LA I think, I would always tell guys about my baby brother and his Rubix cube.
A short aside about the baby — 16 years old in a couple weeks. I had a scary dream about him that woke me up at 5:30 this morning. In the dream, he first refused to talk to my mom, then he was taken by demon girls. I had to murder the girls, horribly, graphically, with a knife.
A dream’s a dream, but I rarely have nightmares and never about him, so I need to call home and make sure everything’s okay. Maybe it was just a brain misfire from going to bed at 8:30 and my roommate jacking up the heat while I was sleeping, in addition to All Hallows’ Eve. But if it means something, my interpretation is: puberty. Are demon girls at the high school trying to possess my brother?
Back to that. There are a couple guys I’m hanging out with right now. The first, TJ, is a nut. He texts me late at night and always wants to do weird things. When I leave in the morning I’m singing and bursting with creative energy and just want to write all day.
The second, R, I work with. The first time we hung out, we talked about our past experiences dating people we worked with, and how awful it was. We kept gravitating toward each other anyway. When we finally did it it was like two puppies rolling around in the grass. And when my alarm rang the next morning, and we were still intertwined with each other, he told me his dream in a froggy, half-asleep voice.
Please excuse me while my heart shatters into a thousand pieces.
I did bike home singing, but it was different. I didn’t want to write, or read, listen to music or watch tv. I didn’t want to create or be entertained or be around people at all. So I kept on riding, content with my thoughts, to the end of the Burke Gilman and onto the Sammamish River Trail. I rode to Woodinville and back, 30 miles in all.
Along the way I stopped at a divey bar for its great view of Lake Washington. Annoying as I am, I asked if they had an espresso machine. The bartender carded me and gave me a drip coffee. It tasted like the smell of a Sharpie. I sat on that beautiful patio for a while, talking to my mom, eating the cold leftover Chinese I had squirreled away in my backpack, thinking my thoughts. Before I went back in I dumped my coffee out over the blackberry bushes, to be polite.
And then she didn’t charge me! As I loitered inside, waiting for the bartender to finish checking Facebook on her iPad and give me my tab, she told me she’s worked there for 25 years and never charged for coffee. So there you go.
I made it home just before sundown. Coming back wasn’t quite as fun as going, but I did catch a glimpse of Mt. Rainier and that’s all I need. I made my first pureed soup and banana ginger cookies for the plane and, when the clock hit 8:30, crawled into bed and went to sleep.