Pardon Me

Ok so I was drunk and it was early morning, still very much dark

outside the second story window that overlooked a less than picture perfect

neighborhood of old homes converted long ago to apartments, in a city

once bustling with busy mills and shops, and now evoking its sad long

moan of depression and defeat. Streetlight beams invade through bended

slats of cheap vinyl horizontals.

Just keep quiet. Just lie back down and drift to sleep. The churn of

anger building, outrage at the sleeping form I barely knew, as memories

of sloppy kisses and subsequent refusals swept into view. Didn't stop

me from staying despite the gnaw of guilt at being away from home, the

embarrassment of being known to have stayed over even though my "best"

friend slept in view on the brown wide gapped afghan atop a wilted couch

of the same shade under the window. Her arm draped over yet another

stranger's form. Her memories will not consist of refusals, nor will they

evoke guilt. What freedom that must be, as I sidle that life pretending

to be okay with it all; pretending to not judge, to supersede parental

influences of New England acceptability. Trying not to feel better than

thou, yet knowing I don't belong here. Incongruent with this shame not

earned, yet enshrouding me. One instance, one decision after another,

being led instead of leading. Looking for escape and finding

more of the same to add to my list of "run-froms". Once small example

in an endless jumble of mismatched episodes spilt over the low pile

carpet of beige.

One hit to his back. Hard, but not accurate over the dingy sheet.

Another to rouse him.

\\\"What the hell? What is wrong with you? What?\\\"

Oh no. I\\'ve gone too far. I better stop. I cannot explain that the

streetlamp seeped in, that I do not \\\"have issues.\\\" Cannot make this

stranger with dark stubble and annoyed eyes see me. Now I must commit myself

to him. Atleast six months until he will know I am as normal as he.

Then I can move on without that look of suspicion floating on the ceiling

in those insomniac nights that will inevitably continue.

1/8/07