I led us through the dense patterns of people and sun rays of a Chicago summer.I remember what I wore, a dark blue short dress, tiny flowers in pink shades. I remember what you wore, or at least the image I’ll always have of you. Sun bleached shoulder length hair, your strong shoulders contoured shade in your worn yellow shirt. Uh I remember the way you looked at me, I remember when accents turned me on, yours was the first. We watched Iron and Wine and met again at the Dodos concert that night. I want to say we danced, but we may just have watched the show. You met me at Duffy’s later that week for cheap Bud Light. Back when I was making myself like beer. Your passport wouldn’t let you in the bar so we left and drank at some other place with cheap alcohol. Then I rode back to my sublease on South Martin Luther King Dr. on your handle bars, you took that bike everywhere. I was 22 and infatuated with who you represented. Something attached you to me, but I don’t know what. We spent time together whenever you passed through Chicago. You’d ride the bus with me to my internship, one earbud in yours and one in mine, holding hands and cuddling up the 20 minute ride.
Later, you came to Pennsylvania and met my family while traveling New England. The image of you on the dock, the dock that I spend a week every summer. The dock that I jump off, that I hop into tubes, that I step into kayaks. The dock I arrived to from boat rides singing “sex and candy” when I was 11 with my 11 year old cousin. You’re there now too. At my Aunt’s, you slept in your tiny blue truck, The Desert Lobster. I’ll always remember how to spell the difference between dessert and desert. The image of the second s scribbled out above the windshield, an accident from your travel mate. That night, I snuck out to lay next to you. Us messing around, back when I thought being loud meant something. That was the night I told you I was a virgin. I remember you asked “How is that possible?” It’s possible when you grow up thinking sex is a sin until marriage and that you will get pregnant. I was so paranoid. Getting Pregnant is not the worst thing to be paranoid about though. Staying a virgin that long is also possible when the experience transitions into the image of what I want losing my virginity to look like. Even though I’d moved on in my value system of what I considered sinful, I wasn’t willing to settle.
I remember sitting in my parents van on the drive back to their hometown in Michigan, looking out the tinted window, the sun probably on me, as it is when I’m inspired and moved. I knew I wanted to sleep with you. I wanted you to be my first. I knew you’d do it right. You came back through Chicago and I told you. At the time, I wasn’t on birth control and I deep down, I knew ‘we’ weren’t exclusive. So we bought condoms together at the local pharmacy. I don’t think I even knew how to put one on, but you were patient. I never felt silly or stupid. I felt a love from you. I knew you cared for me in some way. You played the XX and Angus and Julia Stone and became animalistic. I remember thinking you looked like a lion.
We laid in bed, smoking an old spliff and not regarding the spilt red wine we were sipping on. It was exactly what I wanted. The experience as a whole was what I imagined. I didn’t realise until much later that I’d fallen for you, I didn’t really want to admit it, partially because it wasn’t mutual. Yes, we would visit each other more that summer, and yes, you were always lovely and never did wrong to me. A year a half later, I was finishing my year visa in Australia. I was there for only myself, so I didn’t see you until a week before I left for Indonesia. I thought it would be cool to catch up, so did you. So I booked my flights. That week would signify perhaps one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. I thought you were standing up for a hug, but you sat and then all of a sudden I was straddling you on the couch at your parents house. They were all watching. We’d been talking about your American girlfriend that I found out about just a couple days prior while your sister knew all about me. Then you gently pushed me off of you, and I just thought “FUCK What am I doing here?”
My 70’s purple and orange polyester dress slid down my shoulders. Untucking my long golden brown hair and zipping the length of my spine. The fabric falls only inches down my thighs. You lead me to the edge, the water black, choppy, aggressive. The sky fairly grey. I take a photo of you with your camera. You standing at the edge of the cliff; flowered shirt, maroon shorts, hands straight down, face un-telling. You jump first, a casual backflip. Is the neck brace a joke or a serious safety precaution? I don’t know, but you look hilarious. You swim to the edge, and I take notes of where to leave these dark, shark infested waters, quickly. We stand at the top, my heart pounding, my muscles able to move mere itches at a time. I want to look good, you have your camera ready. I also want to refrain from tripping, from slipping and dragging my body down the 10 meters of sharp rock. 1, 2, 3. Deep breath. 1, 2, 3, 4. I step my right foot at the edge, and check into myself. I can feel the weight in my right foot, the air past my left and I’m flying.