Diary Friday: “I gave him orders like an Ice Queen.”

High school journals have obviously lost their humor for me, recently. I’m all about Chicago now. I know a lot of readers like the adolescent entries – and I’ll eventually get back to them – but for now, Chicago. And M. is on the ol’ noggin, naturally, so here’s another M. entry. This is from 1995. We had known each other 3 years by this point. I think it’s March, 1995 in this entry… and I made the decision to move to New York in, I think, April or May -so things are already turbulent here. The ice is starting to break up, so to speak, and I’m starting to look at other options. Or – I’m not even aware that I’m looking at my future and which way I want to go … but I AM. When the decision was made, boom, that was it. M. and I, at the point of this entry, are about to have a huge blow-out at a place called Gingerman Tavern – that place will always be infamous in my memory, me storming home at 3 in the morning, then speaking to him like he was a halfwit when he called me at 4 in the morning wondering where I had gone – I even slowed down my speech, so he could understand – Bitch!!!, and then refusing to take his calls thereafter, etc. – I can’t remember when that occurred – must have been shortly after this entry (I can feel it coming as I re-read this entry – I’m getting annoyed with him already) – and I didn’t talk to him for months because of “the night of the Gingerman”. Hahahaha So absurd – if the bar was called anything else it might not be so absurd. But once my plans to leave for New York became more and more definite, and I started uprooting myself … he and I made up, I have no memory how that came about … but I know I felt like – Okay, this is ridiculous. I’m LEAVING. I’m not gonna hold a grudge and deprive myself of seeing M.

This entry came to my mind today because I watched Dane Cook’s Vicious Circle last night – which I love – and he has all of this hiLARious relationship observation stuff, which never ever gets old. That man (on my bench as he is) makes me LAUGH. His whole “you girls are brain ninjas” thing – and his observation about girls getting snacks at the movies (it’s so right ON – makes me LAUGH!!!!! – both sides of his observations – the girl side and the guy side. Beautiful.) And also the differences in how the sexes argue. Man, he’s so damn funny. But anyway, a lot of this entry reminded me of Dane Cook’s observations, so I thought – Okay. I’ll post this. Really NOTHING happens … but it’s chock-full of that kind of observational specificity. I am amazed at how I wrote in my own journal back in those days. The obsessive detail. I would never write like this now. Not in a journal, anyway.

MARCH??? 1995

I felt the rumblings of codependence with M. the night at Higgins. There was one point where I felt like I was him. I felt sick to my stomach. I could not enjoy myself with him – he seemed into oblivion, or something. I don’t find him to be a closed person, actually. I am way more closed than he is – but there is an element to him that remains mysterious. Holed up in some tower. P. came up. [This was an important ex-girlfriend. A big deal in his life] Let me try to dredge up the source. He would reference her – and I would ask him ?s about what he said. I want him to feel like he can talk to me – I’m not gonna get jealous and hissy – (although I was jealous and hissy about that crazy bitch at Jazz Bulls, that’s true).

See? Codependent. He is the last person I need to be codependent with. His behavior can be so FUNKY and strange.

I told him that I did feel a bit awkward at Bitches [this was a show I had gone to see – Mitchell was in it, a bunch of my friends, and also a guy I had gone on a couple dates with. A guy I had to let down easy – like he really thought we were “dating” – and blah blah … I wasn’t into it, though, and had to have a “talk” with him. It was ikky. Anyway, I had told M. all about it.]

M. said, and this was kind of a cute moment, “Oh, because of your old boyfriend?” Boyfriend! We had gone thru the “How could he be in Bitches? Aren’t they all gay?” exchange – but I finally got him to understand it was a mix of sexualities in the show. I said, “Yeah, I felt a little awkward – especially since I was dashing here to meet you after.” He said, “So you didn’t hang out after the show to say hi to him?” I shook my head. M. scolded me. “Sheila! He was probably expecting to see you!” I said, “I know. I feel bad about it now.”

What else can I say. I called B. and apologized a couple days later. I should have hung out to at least say Hi to him. It was my duty since I was the one doing the breaking up. I actually, oh God, I have to admit it, rather enjoyed being scolded by M. There was something endearing about it.

When he saw that I knew he was right, when he saw me concede that he was right – my attitude was: Well, it’s done now, I feel bad about it, but what can I do now? When he saw that expression on my face, he let me off the hook and said, “Well, I know how you feel actually. I mean, I still see P. maybe once a month – but I don’t tell her I’m seeing you or anything – I just leave that stuff unsaid.”

He said, “I like simplicity. Simple situations. Simple … simple … simple …” with long slow flat-line gestures with his hands. On his right hand, up near the first knuckles on his index and middle finger is a brownish-yellow stain from cigarettes. I grab his hand and inspect it – holding his fingers 1/2 an inch away from my eyes. It’s kind of gross, and yet I am also mesmerized by it.

I don’t know what it was – but over the course of the night – I felt M. getting disturbed – but he was pushing it away – As far as I was concerned, he was emanating pain. I felt something very different about him this night. I didn’t push him. I didn’t want to shatter the spell – I made my inside very very still, and just focused on him. I was a safe pool. And I sent him brain waves. Leap in, the water’s fine. I’m safe, M., I’m safe. But he kept trying to shuck off the mood he was in – I don’t know, I guess we just don’t communicate very well on that other level. As I said before, I’m really not into de-focusing. I can’t do it. [Give it time, Sheila. You will turn “de-focusing” into a true art form] He, having made me sad, tried to jostle me out of it. I said, “I’m okay, M. You don’t have to cheer me up. I’m just sad sometimes, when I’m with you.” He was very kind, very kind. I can’t think of another word to use for what he was then. Kind. Assuring me that he was all right. He wasn’t angry with me, which I thought he might be – he hates being “pitied” – but he actually seemed to really appreciate the fact that I might feel sorry for him. He validated it.) “I’m really okay, Sheila – don’t worry so much about me. Okay? Sheila?” Nudging me. “Okay?”

I said, “Sometimes you just strike me as a very sad person. And that makes me sad.”

He – still with this kindness towards me – didn’t say anything – but gave me the most common M. look in his lexicon of looks – the incoherent (yet totally clear, to me) fill-in-the-blanks look. I filled in the blank with: “Thanks for thinking of me that way, but it’s not necessary. There’s nothing I can do about how you see me.” I shrugged back at him, giving him my own version of the fill-in-the-blanks look – and my look said, “I can’t help but feel the way I feel. You are sad.”

We left it at that. [I think it’s so curious that I thought we “didn’t communicate very well” and here I am – 2 seconds later – describing what is basically an entirely telepathic conversation.] However, we could not get away from this feeling between us. I’m sure a lot of that had to do with me. I won’t pretend I’m not feeling something. I’m okay with sadness, and … that night I felt a piercing sadness. He brings that sensation in me sometimes. It was manageable, no big deal. I deal with my stuff. And I don’t think he does.

He’s dangerous for me because he can elicit such a motherly fix-it response from me. I want to soothe him, help him rest, give him a respite, help him … I can’t help it when I am with him. He couldn’t find a stapler and I looked for one with him with a vengeance. So at Higgins – I suddenly just became preoccupied with M.’s life. And – I was down for the count. Everything he did after that struck me as more evidence of his sadness, how lonely he is, how stuck … the potential is within him – He is a genius, actually. He’s talented, he’s opinionated, he’s a poet, his MIND! He said – putting himself out to me – trying to shake me out of my mood – “I’m gonna be fine, Sheila, okay? Please don’t be sad anymore.”

I found myself in a crumpled kind of mood. Very tired, pensive, introspective, and a little bit sad. And none of these moods are condusive to time with M. And I didn’t feel like pretending. I should have just gone home. He kept looking over at me – and once, I looked back – and we looked at each other for a while, and then he commented, kind of laughingly affectionate, “You have the most incredibly concerned look on your face.” He ended up being very gentle with me, which surprised me. I thought he would get frustrated – but he started treating me as though I were the sad one. He was taking care of me.

The whole thing was so dysfunctional. I am so sucked into this now. I am him, he is me.

M. mentioned to me a couple of times over the night that he wasn’t feeling well.

I had – on the night we met up at Southport Lanes – stopped at Osco on the way – I bought myself a Peppermint Patty and I bought him a Snickers. Or maybe it was a Milky Way. He was so pleased and cute, putting it in his pocket. So he, 3 days later at Higgins – put his hand on his stomach. “I don’t feel well.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No, it’s not that. Something besides that.”

“Have you eaten anything all day? What have you eaten today?”

He truly thought about this. “Not much. I ate the Snickers you gave me.”

“Is that it?”

I think he nodded. I was horrified. And also angry. It was then that I truly took him on. At least for that night. As my responsibility. I had had it.

“M., what is your problem. You are killing yourself. You have to eat.” I stood up and jerked on his arm. “Come on. Let’s go. Let’s go get you some food.”

He had mentioned earlier (as though it were some far-off unattainable dream) that he craved an omelette from some all-night joint on Ashland, a place I never heard of. He told me in 3-D detail what he wanted. Exactly. He probably mentioned it 2 or 3 times, in the way that he gets stuck on such things. Dry Sol. Coffee tables. Razors. It was that kind of thing. He spins his wheels. It takes him forever to take action. So I am very proactive with him. To balance things out. I get very butch. I decided that we should go to the all-night joint and put some food into him. Fill him up with a 3-egg omelette like he said he wanted.

I stood up. I suddenly could not stand to be in that fucking bar for one more second. M. hadn’t finished his drink.

“Come on, M. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here and get you some food. You haven’t eaten in 24 hours. That is bad.” He hesitated – and I went through the roof. “Come ON. Let’s GO.” I wanted to smack him.

We left. The line of winos sitting at the bar all called, “BYE, M.!!” He’s Norm from Cheers.

As we walked out, I geared myself up for the next inevitable confrontation. He parked right outside the door, illegally, of course. The sidewalk was streaked with ice – thick ice. When we got out there, I said, totally friendly, nonthreatening, no big deal, “M., why don’t you let me drive.” (This is a story I will never tell my parents.) [Hi, Mum and Dad!]

He reacted as though we had had this confrontation 100 times, even though this was the first. He never got angry with me, or defensive, or hostile. He remained affectionate, friendly, amused thru all of this. Kind. But still. He would not give me the keys. He held them back (all 75 keys) from my outreaching hands. “No no no no no no – I’m fine.”

“Come on. It’s not a big deal. Just let me drive.” I wasn’t being hostile or threatening. “Humor me, then. Maybe I’m being paranoid – but humor me. Okay?”

He kept holding the keys up over my head – and I started to reach for them – and got a hold of them. We wrestled briefly for them. It became a serious scuffle.

“Sheila – no -”

I then slipped on the ice and fell on my ass onto the sidewalk, which pissed me off. I had a huge bruise on my butt the next day. When I went down, he started laughing and went to help me up but I was too mad at him by that point – and pushed his hands away – got up myself – fuming. “Do you think I can’t drive? The diner is 3 blocks away. Give me the goddamn keys.”

“No. This car – there are traction issues that you just can’t understand.” (It was only afterwards that I realized how funny this was.)

“I’ve driven cars like this one. I can drive a stick. Give me the goddamn keys.”

I should not have gotten into that car. I was a 10 minute walk from my house. The tenor of the whole evening was so bizarre. By this point, M. didn’t seem drunk at all – our wrestling seemed to sober him up – but still. It was like we were friendly and yet serious opponents. 2 pirates on separate ships. He assured me, “I’m fine. Don’t worry.” And he opened the door for me, standing there, holding it open for me.

Oh no, wait, I just remembered the worst part – and in the millisecond of remembrance I felt the same flutter of fear and alarm that I felt then. This was when it stopped being a joke to me. Or, it hadn’t been a joke – I really did want him to give me the keys – but it hadn’t really become a fight yet. When it became a scuffling match, he was holding the keys up and away from me – and I was reaching and jumping – saying, “Give them – oh, Christ – come on – it’s not a big deal …” This was the kind of stuff I was saying. And there was still an element of laughter in all of this – even when I fell. And then he said, teasing, in this evil sing-song (and I get a chill remembering it), “Tonight’s the night you die!” With a taunting face.

The second he said it he was sorry. But that was way too late for me. And I went fucking ballistic. I started screaming at him. “HEY. Don’t you EVER talk to me like that! My GOD! What a HORRIBLE thing to say to me – ”

He didn’t mean to say it – and as I went crazy, he immediately started trying to take it back. So underneath my explosion, he was saying, “Oh, hold on a second … I didn’t mean that – No no no – Sheila – no – ” responding directly to my fear, and I was afraid. I hated how he said that “tonight’s the night you die” to me. It was so so awful. I was in tears – and he was grabbing hold of me – trying to calm me down, but he had really shaken me up with that comment – and I was shaking him off, smacking at his hands, shouting up into his face, “Maybe you don’t like your life, but don’t you DARE fuck with mine.” He was gentle and sorry and soothing – “I’m sorry – you know I didn’t mean that – I’m sorry … Please please forgive me …” I was tense and tight.

He held the door open, giving me the kindest most reassuring look. “I’m fine. Okay? I’m fine.”

I got into the car. I have nothing to say in my defense. As I got in, I didn’t want to be a hypocrite and start praying, since I was at that moment exercising my free will – but I was still filled with this sensation of “Please” – sending out – yes, they were prayerful vibes. I was all aggressive with M. too. I slammed the door as I sat down, slammed it in his face.

M., as he started the car, kept up this steady stream of reassurances. “You can have confidence in me. I am a very good driver–”

“Please shut the fuck up and concentrate on what you’re doing. Thanks.”

[My GOD. Mean Sheila!! M. actually wasn’t all that drunk and I wasn’t drunk at all … I remember this night very well. He was driving me crazy – and I was trying to wrench back some control. We never fought. We were not a fight-y type couple. We were relaxed, improvisational, non-judgy, and … well, believe it or not, he was always – and probably still is – a safe haven. And me for him too. But things spiralled this night. And the Gingerman is a couple weeks in our future. No surprise.]

I felt like I had to be as alert as possible. It was like I was trying to drive the car thru my brain waves. I watched him like a hawk. I put all of my energy into being a total BITCH. [hahahaha]

He drove totally fine, by the way. I won’t ever do that again – but he did drive calmly, reasonably, and didn’t make one error. He didn’t tease me by going too fast, or revving the engine, swerving on purpose – switching the headlights off – He did none of those things. He could sense I was NOT in the mood to be teased. I had put my life into this maniac’s hands. I will not be that stupid again. If I was killed in a drunk driving accident, and M. lived – that would ruin his life. [Wow. Notice my codependence here. If I die – HIS life would be ruined. Man!!!] So no. I will never do such a thing again. I don’t live my life with that level of denial.

He pulled out of his illegal parking space. I expected to get into a fiery wreck immediately. I gave him orders like an Ice Queen.

“Stop sign.”

“Slow down.”

“Stop sign again.”

I was being as annoying as I possibly could be. Oh, and I actually made a mistake. We stopped at a stop sign. He signalled to go right and I jumped all over him: “What are you doing? This is a one-way street.” He got very cold and contained and controlled. Said to me, “Look closely at that sign and tell me what you see.”

I did and I was totally wrong. It was a one-way sign but it was twisted around so it appeared to be facing us and referring to the cross-street – but it wasn’t.

I subsided. “Oh. Sorry.”

The whole evening’s cumulative effect was upsetting. I was depressed. He was being so nice to me. It was killing me. His niceness, conciliatory – I could not WAIT to be at his apartment and to be off the fucking road. I knew I was not being true to myself. This is not how I live my life.

We drove up Belmont towards Ashland. He drove very moderately. I was wound tight as a top. Fuming. Sad. Anxious. Alert – eyes fixed on the road. He started trying to talk to me about something else, and I didn’t even hear him. He realized I didn’t and then he got all worried about me. For real.

“Heyyyyy –” he said, reaching out and taking my hand. He was serious. “What’s wrong?” I couldn’t answer. So much was wrong. When I didn’t answer, he got even more nervous and prodding – gentle. “Hey.” He held my hand tighter – looking over at me – alternatiing watching the road and looking at me.

When he’d look at me, I’d snap, “Please watch the road.”

He ignored me and said, “Okay. Sheila. You’re very upset right now with me. What is it? Is it me? Or … is it that stupid thing I said back there? What is it?”

I couldn’t look at him because I was too busy driving the car with my brain waves. “I am upset. You make me upset.” [Horrible answer. Dane Cook would have a field day with that one, and rightly so.]

He launched into a monologue of justifications, still holding my hand in his lap. Telling me he was fine, he’s a good driver, I didn’t have to worry about him. He tried to make a joke – it fell flat – I was consumed. He jostled my hand, friendly, trying to perk me up. “Hey! That was a joke!” He seemed really worried about how mad I was, how detached I had become from him.

Even though, this whole thing was sincere – neither of us were playacting at all – but in retrospect, I was aware of my 3rd eye observing this whole thing, watching, commenting on it, enjoying it in a weird way. Watching M. being nervous, soothing, reassuring – it was very interesting to me. He turned right on Ashland and then we hit the diner (no, not literally). The diner was actually called something like the 3-Egg-er.

He parallel-parked on School or Roscoe – brilliantly, of course. He could bring moonlight into a chamber. [Oh my God, you did NOT just quote “Midsummer Night’s Dream” to describe M.’s parallel parking skills.]

By this point, I had chilled out slightly. He was driving so responsibly, so normally, that I felt pretty positive that we’d at least make it the block and a half back to his place. I still did not like the situation and I was not happy with myself at all.

We both got out and went into the diner. It was almost 3 in the morning. This diner was BOMBED by flourescent light. Horrific. Like an electrocution. There were about 3 booths and a curving counter. Open kitchen and greasy grill. The waitress was in her 60s, silvery-blue eye makeup caked on her eyelids, clearly fake teeth, no lips. M. and I walked in. The whole night we were in this constant state of bickering. Never unfriendly outright – until the keys moment – but we were definitely getting on each other’s nerves.

There was a booth full of wandering Generation X-ers. M. and I had a whole different edge to us. I was now part of the Chicago underbelly. I was in a diner at 3 am with my black-haired pale-skinned man. M. and I stood, staring up at the menu on the wall.

“What do you want?” he said to me. The air was now clear between us. (Or clear-er). Once I was out of that damn car.

“Oh, I’m not gonna have anything.” I said.

“Really?” He was all concerned and worried again. Why wasn’t I eating? What did that mean? Was I upset again? He took it very personally.

“Yeah, I’m not that hungry.” Which was a lie. I was hungry. Not for anything cooked on that nasty grill, though. Also, I was totally doing that weird female “Oh, I have no appetite” behavior that drives M. insane. [And Dane Cook as well. Ha]

“Really? You’re not gonna get anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Really. I’m not hungry.”

“Well … then …” he was at a loss. Part of his reality had been that we both were ordering food and I was shaking up that plan. He wanted me to order food. I actually was very close to ordering something to make him happy but I refrained. The whole night I was so mixed up. I should have ordered to make me happy. I hadn’t had dinner – I was very hungry! [I love how I bitched him out for his eating habits and there it is – and it’s 3 am and I probably hadn’t eaten since 4:30 pm the day before. Ahhh, being young and hypocritical and self-righteous – and to be forgiven for it!]

M. was disgruntled. He felt weird about ordering food without me. Like it was rude and ungentlemanly or something. He ordered mounds of food (none of which was an omelette). [hahahahaha] He ordered 2 cheeseburgers, french fries, chili, onion rings – He went insane. He was very cute ordering. Despite everything, I still was finding him so cute. Like: Ohhhh, look at M. ordering food. It was that kind of thing.

We sat at the counter waiting. He was still acting all worried about me, worried I was mad at him. He sat right next to me, being very touchy with me (as in affectionate), nudging me, kissing me, stuff like that.

I began to play a part, randomly, just to amuse myself and him. I became this tough swaggering greaser girl – like Rizzo. I was wearing my leather jacket, had the red lips, so I became this Rizzo girl, squinting up at the menu on the wall, being surly and uncooperative. I was making M. laugh. With every change of expression, he’d burst out laughing – “What was that face?”

He was smoking. [Smoking inside!! Ahhhh … the long-ago days …] He looked like death warmed over. I wanted a cigarette as a prop for my character. Rizzo was definitely a smoker. I reached across his arms for his cigarette – we were comfortably sprawled and draped all over each other – “Gimme a drag,” I demanded.

He suddenly got totally serious. “No.” And it was not a “No, I don’t want to share” No. There was more to it.

“Come on,” I said. “Give me your cigarette.”

He held it back, like he had done with his keys. But he wasn’t amused. He was so serious.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Don’t ever joke about smoking, or start it as a joke. It’s not something you should kid about. I’ve licked the coke addiction – but cigarettes? Don’t even kid about it, Sheila. I’ll kick your ass if you start smoking.”

“Have you ever tried to quit?”

“About 10 times.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t wish this addiction on my worst enemy.”

“Okay, okay.”

He got his 2 big white bags of greasy lardy food, and we were off. He now seemed totally sober. We drove back to his place. The TV was on. N. was not home. [Okay. That alone is hilarious to me.] We sat in the living room. It was 4 in the morning by this point.

He sat on one couch, and I lay down on the other one. He grinned at me. Happy that I seemed happy again. “Isn’t that the best couch?” he said. Next thing you know, he’d start going off on the best Coffee Table in the World.

“It’s amazing. It’s so long.” I stretched like a cat.

We watched TV. M. sat, pulling the food out of the bags, spreading it out all over the already cluttered infamous table. I was kind of tired, but also kind of wired too because of the “tension” in the air. My brain was still very alert. M., as he unpacked all his food, started telling me about this National Geographic show he had seen about lions. He described it to me, in detail, for about 15 minutes. It was one of those times when he could have gone on for 45 more minutes and I still would have been a rapt audience. He was too fucking adorable for words. He was telling me how “the pride” works. He told me some of the scenes that blew him away – the lions lying on tree branches – he told me all about the lion/hyena dynamic and how that all breaks down.

Enough said. M. talking to me about lions was one of the best moments of the night. He described to me how AMAZED he was by their heads and how huge they are and also the expressions in their eyes.

“They really do have expressions, don’t they,” I said.

M. said, in a very final and-that’s-all-there-is-to-say tone, “They’re human beings.”

As he was talking to me, telling me stories about lions, I had a couple of impulses to crawl over my couch to his couch and smother him with kisses. So fucking CUTE. Meanwhile, he was unwrapping vile-looking grey hamburgers. He glanced at me at one point, “It’s because of behavior like this that I’m gaining weight.”

“This is true.”

Here’s a part that cracks me up – and how I knew I was doing that “Oh I’m not hungry” bullshit that girls do sometimes.

He took out the fries, and the styrofoam cup of chili. He took the cap off the chili. Suddenly I was ravenous and I knew I had to have some of that chili. Oh, and I’m sorry to be so fucking crazy – but he did not get French Fries – they were actually homefries. And when he took those out and I saw them – browned, actual little potatoes – just how I like them – I knew I had to have some of those too.

I was a bit embarrassed since we had had such a scene at the diner over me not being hungry. Yet there I was, drooling like a lion on a tree branch, over his homefries and chili.

I was very tentative about asking for anything, thinking I might get a passive-aggressive refusal. “No. You had your chance. This is my food.” But M. happened to look over at me, and saw the blatant desire on my face. He immediately became Mr. What’s Mine Is Yours. Eat, Papa, Eat! Not a speck of attitude.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you? Eat! Have whatever you want!”

“Can I have some chili?”

“Yeah! Have some! You want a hamburger? I have 2!”

“Those homefries look good.”

“Eat as much as you want. Here’s a spoon for the chili. I can’t eat all this. You sure you don’t want a cheeseburger?”

“No. This is fine. Thank you.” I took up the spoon and settled down to having some chili. M. was being very solicitous, offering me everything, like a maitre d. “You want a bite? Do you like onion rings? Do you want some?”

“Ohhh, this chili is good.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I’ll save you some. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, it’s okay. Eat it all if you want.”

He was Mr. Share Boy.

We clearly blended boundaries a little bit over the course of this evening. I was so ready to go home the next day – and get back to myself. But – for those brief hours I was in it – it was kind of nice. I’ve become such a separatist in my relationships with men and there was something satisfying (even though sometimes upsetting) about getting under each other’s skin, the way we did.

We drank flat soda.

Once we finished eating, M. became suddenly curious about the couch he was sitting on. “It came with the apartment. Apparently it’s a pull-out bed too. I’ve never pulled it out though.”

The next thing you know the 2 of us were moving the massive coffee table so that we could pull out the bed. Then M. was trotting back to his room to get sheets and comforter. We made the bed. The second the bed was out and made, I knew I had to go to sleep immediately. It was an instant reaction. I need to get into that bed and I will be fast asleep in about 5 minutes.

We had started to watch a kung fu movie, as well as Planet of the Apes, going back and forth. [And there, folks, is one of my definitions of heaven] So we lay in bed, watching, laughing. It can be so comfortable for the two of us. I am not self-conscious at all with him.

Finally, I was drifting off with such a vengeance that I climbed under the puff. M. followed my lead. We left the TV on, sans sound. All the lights were off. I was halfway gone and I could feel M. tucking the puff around my back, making sure I was snug, then he lay down, with his arm on top of the puff.

“Where’s your arm?” I asked.

“What arm?”

“The arm that should be under the covers and holding me.”

This made him laugh. I was almost asleep, and still making demands.

He said, “Is my leg too heavy? Is it bothering you?”

“Oh no. I love it.”

“I’m glad. P. was so … small … she always felt like I was crushing her.”

I lay in the dark, suddenly awake, and now kind of insulted, because I obviously was not “small”. That was his implication. “Thanks a lot,” I grumbled.

He hastened, all nervous, – “No!–”

I started laughing. I seriously was almost asleep by this point. “I know, I know, I’m kidding …”

He kept going – “No … no … you’re … you weigh more than 90 pounds. And that’s good. You’re a human being – not a pipe-cleaner doll.”

I started guffawing.

So I fell asleep – and I could feel his heartbeat against my back. Through his skin. I could feel it pulsing. My heart just went out to his heart. I wanted so badly to reach in there and make it all better, take away his pain – It wasn’t really a coherent thought. It was just an impulse. I love his heart. I love his life. I love the fact that he is alive. And I will protect his life. I will stand on the side of his health, his life. That’s my decision.

We totally fell asleep in about 2 minutes.

And N. came home, at one point. [Gotta love all of this youthful out-at-5-am stuff. I would be flattened for days if I behaved like this now.] I had already been asleep, and the sound of the keys in the door woke me up. I did not look up as N. came in. I pretended I was still asleep. M. and I both played dead. This is actually a pretty funny moment. N. [who is now famous. I just chuckle at this.] comes into his own aparment – at 5 am or whatever – and was confronted with his own living room overtaken by me and M. crashed on a pull-out bed when M. has a perfectly good bed down the hall. N. stood over us, at the side of the bed for a second, looking down at us, and then said, quietly, to himself, “What the hell is going on?”

I almost laughed out loud.

Then he went down the hall to his room. And he left before we woke up.

I woke up first and I was ready to go home. I was wiped OUT. Gave him a quick kiss and left. Squinting into the daylight like a mole. When I got home, I felt like Return from Oz. I was so glad to see my house, my room, Samuel. I was like – where did I just GO?