I never get anything done when I work nights. Instead, I eat quick foods like toast, dry cereal and whatever's still good in the fridge; like pickles or apples that haven't gone too soft. The dishes pile up, towering and teetering, and there's never any cutlery that's clean. Papers cover any flat surface, and books are left unshelved. It becomes an obstacle course to get from the front entrance to my room as the laundry becomes more unmanageable by the day.
Because my place is probably the furthest away from any of my friends, I've yet to really have a house party after the bar closes. It simply is too much of a chore to get there. When I used to live downtown, I was a lot neater because people would pop in either before or after going out for the evening. Now, my slovenly ways shame me, sort of.
He asked to come over and we made a pit stop at his house first, picking up his portable record player. We caught a cab to mine, and on the way, I made him promise to wait outside while I hastily tried to make it seem a little less like a tornado had landed inside. He laughed and agreed, and when we got there, he asked if he could just wait inside the front door. But of course he followed me all the way in, and told me that he simply didn't care.
We spent the rest of the night and straight on until 8:30 in the morning spinning records and telling stories to each other. It was simply one of the most pleasurable times I've had in awhile.
I was described as being 'happy' that evening by another. I don't know if 'happy' is really the word. I always have a ready smile for people that I am delighted to see, and laugh loudly when something amuses me, but I have a dark side that I'm not apt to share with just anyone. There's nothing wrong with being happy, but it reminds me more of someone being oblivious to everything else. It's hard to describe in several words who I am, which had been the challenge of the evening. Those several words seem to change on a daily basis.
He was caught by that same person who demanded 3 discriptive words of himself. And it seemed to pain him. He was obviously feeling awkward, but he turned it into a joke. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to be flippant. He finally told the other guy the truth and said that even if he managed to come up with 3 words, they wouldn't be the right words. He admitted that he would probably lie about it and say that he would only tell his good friends what he honestly thought. He said that he didn't feel comfortable telling a perfect stranger who he thought he was.
And later, he was angry about it. He didn't like the person who tried to ask such private things of him. I understood.
I had answered, and I said that Truth, Honesty and Understanding were the most important words to me. And it was true, at the time. But choosing the 3 most important words to me, that best describes me is useless. They change by the day. Sometimes by the second.
And later, while were lazily listening to Patti Smith in the bright sunshine, lying on the couch, with him holding my hand, I knew that even if we were never going to get together, we were together in that moment.
That seemed all right to me, then.