He twists the grass and watches it break. A child with a magnifying glass
and ants. It had been hot summer day. Some day.... Some day he'd go to
place where it was cold in the summer and he could freeze glass, then watch
it melt next to a fire. Maybe Iceland.
He has a tendency to dream. Sometimes he doesn't want to, but he does anyway. Late at night, before he falls asleep he lets images fall through his mind and waits for sleep to knock him flat, to fall into darkness, like the pills he used to take. He tries not to remember what he dreams about. The locker room at school. He tries not to look at the naked bodies but he can't help himself. He looks the same. Chiseled, maybe. Three nights a week in the gym wing- his father had had built it four years ago. Sometimes he dreams about his father. He used to hit him, when he lost, when he wasn't a man. He hit him back once and his father never touched him with his hand again. His words still scarred. His mother says nothing.
He wonders why anything matters. Not everything should matter and some things should matter more. The way sweat felt rolling off your body after a perfect game, after sex. The way the maid always knew when it was your birthday. The book of Spanish poetry that you couldn't, or didn't read so much as watch the words dance across fragile paper, like a page ripped from the Bible. Onion paper. Either way it made you cry.
He tastes blood on his tongue and doesn't know why. Then takes his knuckle from his mouth and looks at the thin skin with the blood on old scar he'd opened. He had had sex with guys before. Once. When he went to visit his aunt for a summer. Several times. One guy. Their lips had never touched one another's. Once they had sex (they weren't in love, so they couldn't make that) in the grass. Not at midnight. They weren't romantics. It hadn't been half past nor were there fairies dancing around en route to orgies. Sex wasn't poetic. That was the one night they allowed themselves to sleep, on their clothes, on one another's flesh. When they awoke they picked through their belongings like scavengers, survivors after a car wreck. When he left to come back to Hartford they had said nothing. Like a silent movie; should their mouths move no sound would come out.
When he thinks about the future, he's not sure. Maybe he'll follow his father. There are few people his father hasn't fucked or fucked over. He could do that. Maybe he'll travel the world, find a beach, get syphilis and not care. Bleed into a bottle and watch ice melt on the sand crystals that would be imbedded everywhere.
Tristan. He's always hated that name. Like gravity, what could he do about it.
He has a tendency to dream. Sometimes he doesn't want to, but he does anyway. Late at night, before he falls asleep he lets images fall through his mind and waits for sleep to knock him flat, to fall into darkness, like the pills he used to take. He tries not to remember what he dreams about. The locker room at school. He tries not to look at the naked bodies but he can't help himself. He looks the same. Chiseled, maybe. Three nights a week in the gym wing- his father had had built it four years ago. Sometimes he dreams about his father. He used to hit him, when he lost, when he wasn't a man. He hit him back once and his father never touched him with his hand again. His words still scarred. His mother says nothing.
He wonders why anything matters. Not everything should matter and some things should matter more. The way sweat felt rolling off your body after a perfect game, after sex. The way the maid always knew when it was your birthday. The book of Spanish poetry that you couldn't, or didn't read so much as watch the words dance across fragile paper, like a page ripped from the Bible. Onion paper. Either way it made you cry.
He tastes blood on his tongue and doesn't know why. Then takes his knuckle from his mouth and looks at the thin skin with the blood on old scar he'd opened. He had had sex with guys before. Once. When he went to visit his aunt for a summer. Several times. One guy. Their lips had never touched one another's. Once they had sex (they weren't in love, so they couldn't make that) in the grass. Not at midnight. They weren't romantics. It hadn't been half past nor were there fairies dancing around en route to orgies. Sex wasn't poetic. That was the one night they allowed themselves to sleep, on their clothes, on one another's flesh. When they awoke they picked through their belongings like scavengers, survivors after a car wreck. When he left to come back to Hartford they had said nothing. Like a silent movie; should their mouths move no sound would come out.
When he thinks about the future, he's not sure. Maybe he'll follow his father. There are few people his father hasn't fucked or fucked over. He could do that. Maybe he'll travel the world, find a beach, get syphilis and not care. Bleed into a bottle and watch ice melt on the sand crystals that would be imbedded everywhere.
Tristan. He's always hated that name. Like gravity, what could he do about it.