1 Chapter 1
Monday, October 22, 1990
Saturday, October 27, 1990. 3:30 A.M.
Saturday, October 27, 1990. 12:47 P.M.
Thursday, November 5, 1990. 6:14 P.M.
Friday, November 23, 1990. 11:57 PM
Sunday, November 25, 1990. 11:35 P.M.
Wednesday, November 28, 1990. 5:54 P.M.
Friday, November 30, 1990. 5:04 P.M.
Sunday, December 2, 1990. 1:25 A.M.
Monday, December 17, 1990. 7:19 P.M.
Wednesday, December 19, 1990. 8:21 P.M.
Friday, June 26, 2015. 12:43 P.M.Monday, October 22, 1990
“Hi, Sully. It’s me. Lou. But yeah, you can hear that of course. I…uh…know I shouldn’t call you, but…I had to hear your voice, even if it’s just only your answering machine message. I’m…”—drawn-out, despondent sigh—“I’m so fucking sorry, you have no idea. I wish I was brave like you but I’m not. I’m sorry for letting you down. For letting you go. So, so sorry.”—half-swallowed sob followed by heavy breathing—“I…guess I should hang up. I just…I love you, you know? I guess I’m like that poet fellow you told me about. Donne? Two kinds of fool? But instead of being in love and talking about it in a poem, I’m letting the one I love go. That’s gotta be worse, huh? Take care, Sully. I…uh…“
* * * *
My legs give up underneath me as I listen to the message, and I sink onto the chair and lean my forehead on the kitchen table with a loud groan. When the machine beeps, I rewind the tape and listen to the message again. And again.
I just love you, you know.
I repeatedly bang my head against the table as I listen to it a fourth time, my heart aching more and more with every repeat. With every time I hear that half-swallowed sob.
“Ouch,” I yelp after a too-hard thump, and rub my sore forehead with fingertips still stiff after the outdoor chill. “And you hadto quote John Donne to me, you dickhead,” I mutter and shove my hands under my thighs so I won’t replay the message a fifth time.
I didn’t know Lou paid that much attention to me when I read poetry around him. He’s the kind of person who prefers beer over books and paintball over poetry and is constantly in movement even when he’s supposed to be still; legs jiggling or fingers drumming a tattoo on his leg, or he’s tossing and catching his ever-present baseball.
So to hear that Lou actually listened to me when I read aloud my beloved poetry around him prickles my heart. I always thought he tuned me out and focused on something else, or at least not focusing on the actual words and taking in what I was reading. He never mentioned it after he caught me doing it the first time.
“You’re reading out loud,” he said when he found me with my coffee, a lit candle, and whatever poetry book I’d checked out of the library the first time he spent the night in my tiny apartment.
He startled me, but I nodded. “Yes. I like to hear the words, not just in my head. I want to know what they feel like in my mouth. Does it bother you?”
“Nah,” Lou said and kissed me on the mouth, morning breath and all since the sleepover was unplanned and he hadn’t brought a toothbrush.
After that, I continued reading the poems out loud around him, thinking he wasn’t listening anyway.
Seems I was wrong.
But it wasn’t the only thing I was wrong about. I also thought that when someone said “I love you,” it meant that they wanted to bewith the other person, but that’s obviously wrong, too. At least if the person saying the words is named Lou Hillman.
Abruptly, I stand and slam my hand on the DELETE button, strip out of my running clothes, and jump into the shower.Saturday, October 27, 1990. 3:30 A.M.
“‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”—drawn-out silence disturbed only by the muted sounds of a barking dog—“But I don’t love thee freely, do I?”—harsh, barking laughter—“Fuck homophobic fathers all the way to hell.”—three wet hiccups in rapid succession followed by slurred words—“Shit. Sorry. I’m drunk. Druuu-uuu-uuunk. Bill dragged me to the King’s Arms tonight and I saw someone that reminded me of you, so I drank too much. But he was too tall, taller’n me and his hair was a stripey, dishwater blond and not golden. And not curly enough. But he moved like you. Like…he flailed his arms and kicked his legs instead of actual dancing. Only you would call that dancing.
“But when I saw him properly, his eyes were some weird-ass brown-ish color and they looked all wrongIf I had talent for writing poetry, I would write one of them…whatchamacallit…odes?…to your gray eyes. You’d think gray eyes would be cold and harsh like steel, but yours are always warm and soft. Fuck, Sully. I don’t even know what color my own eyes are, but I know yours. What color are my eyes?”—shuffling booted footsteps on what sounds like a wooden floor, followed by the opening of a squeaking door—“Blue. Huh. I knew that. I really did drink waaaaaaay too much.”—pained groan—“I miss you, Sully. Oh. And it’s Lou, by the way.”Saturday, October 27, 1990. 12:47 P.M.
