Children of the Joshua Tree

I've just spent three hours with an ex-boyfriend. Normally this is a condition that would be postscripted with tears, some yelling, possibly some throwing of things and binge-drinking, since usually I only see my exes to argue with and sometimes have sex with, usually when I'm not seeing anyone else, but the ex in question is...special.

It helped, certainly, that we're both reading Neal Stephenson; all three of us, really, his roommate who works at Algrebra and he and I. It gives us a jumping-off point, and from there on out it's all down.

We bullshitted a lot about alchemy and generally gave some of the Algebra patrons the idea that the three of us had spent approximately eighty years together. Mark (referenced a long long time ago in the post about Asian food stores) and I had a conversation that went like this:

M: How are things?
L: Things are great.
M: I meant in general.
L: Intermittently okay.

And thence followed a huge cloud of vague that held absolutely no meaning for anyone listening save Phil, probably. Maybe it was a state of mind, maybe it was that the reading had synced our brains up again, but we fell naturally back into the old trick of knowing exactly what the other was saying, even when all that was happening aurally was "are things the same as they were the last time we really talked?"

I teased him a bit about leaving Case--about a night that has a certain significance to both of us, a story that may at some point show up on this blog, though it's not as good as "the night I took naked lesbian pictures with my best friend" might suggest. About the past in general.

He took umbrage at some point and said "you can't do that to me anymore, you know." I don't know if he meant teasing, or reminding him that once we were in love like it was gravity, or what, so I said "do what?" like any rational person would. We made eye contact and I could feel the years of separation waver between us, on the verge of vanishing, and he and I back on the edge of love and obsession and the best damn love letters I've ever received or written, probably. The smell of lavender and "pianist fingers" and being the only person to ever keep me up talking all night long.

I looked away.

I fucking did this for R. Because I love him, and I'm tired of carrying around all my lovers with me. Because I want to believe that he's enough. That I'm right, I'm right, I'm right, and logic is the better decision, and the kind of love that loses you all your friends isn't the kind of love that lasts a lifetime. Because I've done stupid things for love, and they've always ended badly, and I want to know that not doing stupid things ends well. Because if I'm not right then I am making a very big mistake.

When I looked back, the moment had passed, the years were solidly back where they should be, and we continued our friendly semi-flirtatious banter. Mark will probably read this and internalize it and maybe write it in a song two and a half years from now.