We cast our skins and slide

Into another time*

I've been slipping in and out of time, weaving through memories like a snake, licking out random details I've not thought of in years.

When I let myself sink into certain memories, it feels as if I've left my body and dissolved into a dream where I float above the scene, all the lights and colors are as vivid as the freckles on my hands. Other times I am in my own past body, unable to change the things being done or said - I am a nebulous skeleton, a brain in a brain. I choke on dust from cleaning Ike's computer. I smell the wine my father has spilled on the carpet. I don't want to be a passenger in my own life.

Now I observe more. I've noticed:

The chipped corner of the kitchen counter, supposedly there when we moved here.

A long-faced man ingrained in a wood panel in the bathroom. He is melting.

Room temperature water tastes better to me than ice water.

Soft, layered background vocals in most songs.

Food is starting to have a taste again.

Having control over what I share or don't share is liberating, though I find myself sharing anyway, and Dr. T'Soni encourages me to share everything, though I know damn well, and she knows damn well I could bundle these secrets into cloth and stash them in a grave.

But as I go back and read, I realize I don't have anything to hide. Anyone could Google my case and see it in LexisNexis, The Denver Post, Aspen Times, Colorado Daily, etc. Why hide anyway? I've spent so many years trying to hide what was all out there anyway. The exposure is so obtuse that I think it's all boring now. I find myself boring.

...

One thing that struck me about Craig, was his absolute stubbornness (I'm terrifyingly stubborn too, and maybe that's why it didn't work out).

Though my stubbornness was defensive, usually pertaining to my body and what goes on or inside of it, his was centered around age-old sentiments. He was voluble about the saying "everything happens for a reason" and how it's "complete horseshit." Which is a step above "horsefeathers," so you know he was serious. Everything is random, luck isn't real (in fact, without the random, there could be no good thing anyway).

What about purpose, Craig? I asked.

What do you mean?

Don't you think everyone is predisposed to a role in this world?

No, just do whatever the fuck you want.

Craig and Susan began outlining some experiments to find a more cost-effective way to desalinate seawater. Water purification isn't anything new, but it's much easier to draw from freshwater, like rivers and lakes, but those resources are starting to thin. I'm not saying we'll be chasing clouds with rain buckets any time soon, but it could happen. (Whoever is reading this - if this is buried and you dug up my therapy here - shut your damn water off when you brush your teeth) (Unless it's already too late? What's the use in taking advice from a dead man?)

One evening after clocking out, we went down to the recreation center (the university had just had the gym remodeled). Craig traded his car keys as collateral for a basketball, and we spent a good hour shooting hoops, taking in slightly sweaty vinegary smells. I made a few shots in a row, to which he teasingly said, "Okay then, Lebron."

We must have looked strange, two dudes in khaki pants and button-up shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, like two dads shooting the shit while their kids have swim practice.

I told him I played a little in school and even talked about going professional. But then again, I also wanted to chase tornadoes. The things I wanted to be weren't realistic.

He scoffed, threw the ball. It hit the rim and bounced onto the oak, newly waxed floor.

"You could have done those things," he said.

I laughed. "Maybe. But I'm good with the path I've chosen."

"What do you want to do after you graduate?"

"Look for jobs, I guess."

"Ever think about grad school?"

"Sometimes. But I don't know. I don't think I'm good enough to get into a Master's program."

"Are you kidding me? You'd be amazing."

"Eh."

"Any school would be lucky to have you."

Two guys, one redheaded, short, much paler than I, and the other so tall and lanky with brown hair began running around the elevated race track just above the nets. I shook my head, steered my gaze to the corner of the gym. A giant wall clock ticked on.

"I'm serious, bärchen. I really, truly believe that whatever your heart wants, your brain can make it happen."

"I think my translator just glitched. What did you just call me?"

"What I've been calling you in my head. Little bear."

"That's really fucking cute. How dare you?"

He saddled the ball around his hip, walked to me, and kissed me on the nose. "All I mean to say is: if you want something, no matter how far down into Hell you have to reach, you can get it. There's literally nothing you can't do."

If I could reach into Hell, Craig, does that mean I could get you back?

It being June, we couldn't ignore the giant rainbow and baby blue, white, and pink flags that popped up in yards and pasted onto the windows of every store. I even stopped by South Perk one night to help paint a giant "Optimus Pride" on the front door. I've never been to a Pride gathering before. I've always been too scared. The only one I knew of was Denver Pride, but that's three hours away. I'm not going to travel three hours to be anxious someplace else when I can be anxious in the comfort of my own home.

Stan and Wendy go together sometimes because they met at Pride (they were both reaching for the bisexual button bin). Last year, they sent some Snapchats to us in the crowd during a performance. One person walked in front of the camera, totally shirtless, sunburnt to hell, with a metal dog mask and leash and collar.

"What the hell was that?" Cartman asked.

I replayed the Snap. "Uh, looks like a puppy to me."

"Aw, he's missing his master," Kenny cooed.

Cartman frowned. "Is that, like, a role-playing thing or something?"

"Yeah," I said. "Puppy play."

Cartman stared hard at me, stared at the phone, then back to me. "The gays don't deserve rights."

Kenny kicked his chair, "You can't say that, Eric!"

Craig had gone with an ex before. When I asked him if he had fun, he shrugged and said, "Sure, yeah. There were a lot of bees, though. Not a lot of places to sit down, either. And it was hot. Also, there were bees."

"Wow, bees outside? Never thought that would happen in my lifetime."

"Don't be a butt."

I got a text later that day from Stan: "Just found out there were Neo-Nazis at Motor City Pride. No one got hurt but some of these lunatics were armed. There are rumors they may march on Denver. Wendy and I aren't going. I know you were thinking of going, but I wouldn't risk it. We can make some rainbow cupcakes at home or some shit idk."

One afternoon, Susan's wife came to the lab with their daughter. They were going on a weekend trip to Albuquerque and wanted to leave straight from the university. Lori, a short woman in jeans and a Highlander shirt, held a sleepy toddler to her chest, her cheeks plump on the shoulder.

"Can you say hi to Mr. Craig and Mr. Kyle?" Susan asked her.

Gracie turned her face into her mother's face.

"She's very shy," Lori said. "But she gets very vocal when we put the Frozen soundtrack on, don't you?"

"Are you going to be Elsa for Halloween?" Craig asked.

I was a little taken aback. I don't know how to speak to children. It's not that they make me uncomfortable, I'm just afraid I'll accidentally say something that traumatizes them. A good few times, administration at the youth center chose me and other random inmates to speak at schools and share our stories as cautionary tales for school children. Some children were as young as 10, and I'll never forget, even though my story was edited, how their mouths dropped, their skin drained of color, eyes once electric with curiosity and excitement, sharply pointed into horror. I'm nice to kids. I smile at kids. But every time I see one, I think of those 10-year olds. I think of Ike.

"She was Elsa last year," Susan said. "I was Anna and Lori was… Well, you tell them."

Lori rolled her eyes. "She made me be Olaf."

We all had a laugh at this, and more casual conversation. Gracie stared at Craig for a while (who wouldn't? He's beautiful).

Craig noticed and asked her, "You want to look in a microscope?" He looked at the two women, "Is that okay?"

"Sure."

Craig snapped on gloves and grabbed two small plastic cards. Lori set the girl down. Craig bent low and held one of the cards under her face.

"Spit onto this."

Without hesitation, she hacked, and a long string of saliva swirled onto the plastic.

"Thank you for your spit, ma'am."

She giggled. Craig closed the other plastic card on top, then went and slid it into the microscope's tray. After adjusting the focus, he grabbed a chair and helped her up. She peered in, grabbing fistfuls of her dress.

"WHOA! MAMA MY SPIT IS AN ICE FOREST."

"Let me see," Lori looked in. "Oh yeah, it looks like shards of glass."

Over Lori and Gracie's heads, Craig smiled at me as if I were the only person in the world. I looked away.

"Come home with me," I said in the car on the way home. We were two minutes from the shop and I couldn't hold the truth anymore.

"What, to stay the night?"

"I'd like that, but you don't have to. You can just stay for dinner if you want."

"I don't have an overnight bag."

"That's okay. I have extra stuff if you decide to stay."

I led him through a sea of moans and buzzes, the alcohol swabs and shy smiles from clients, Stan, Kenny, and Cartman, hunched over arms, legs, feet.

"Do you like spaghetti?" I asked when we climbed up to my kitchen.

"Sure."

"Good, because that's all I know how to make."

"Don't you ever eat meals?"

"Nah, I only snack."

"Well, you are what you eat."

"Oh, shush."

He poked around while I boiled noodles, much in the same manner as I did when he showed me his office.

"What the hell is this?" he pointed to a spatula with googly eyes propped up beside the fridge.

"Rodney," I answered.

He gazed at the photos on the fridge. I had taken down any photos of me and Bebe at that point, so all he saw were various photos of a rotating cast of characters consisting of Cartman, Kenny, Stan, Wendy, and their various family members. There is only one of me and I am not alone.

"How old were you here?" he pointed to the picture of me and Clyde. Clyde is centered, holding a taco out in front of him with both hands, with me on the side, smiling. Both of us were high as fuck and I don't remember who took our picture. I downloaded it from my Facebook.

"I was 16."

"Wow, a baby."

I laughed. "I guess."

"Who's this guy?" His finger hovered just in front of Clyde's face.

"Oh, that was my friend. Clyde."

"Are you still friends?"

I turned the stove off. Is there a word to describe how it feels for your present to rip into your past? Or for two timelines to converge? There has to be a word.

Note from Kyle: Look up Quantum-Mandela Effect

I turned to Craig and said, "I'd like to think we are."

Like most responses to the things I say, Craig gave me that look of confusion mixed with pity and didn't press further.

We ate spaghetti with red wine. I brought him down to my garden and watched as he touched the marigold, the columbines, the iris, the dahlia, the zucchini, and tomatoes. I let him into my space. Let my space go into him.

I sat on the swing bench and rubbed my eyes. Suddenly I was so tired. Tired because I knew I was about to unpetal - my brain screamed PLEASE DON'T REVISIT THIS, DON'T SPEAK OF THIS, GO TO SLEEP. Craig sat next to me and pulled my legs over his lap. I rubbed my eyes until I saw fireworks, then opened them to multi-layers of Craig, shifting along the horizon of my vision until he became one figure again.

"I know the way you looked at me today."

"Sorry?" He said.

"I mean, I noticed. The way you look at me. Like you care about me or something."

"Or something? I care about you a lot."

I took his arm, tracing the inside of his wrist with my fingertip. "I care about you too. But you don't know who I really am, and I'm afraid that when I tell you, you won't care for me so much anymore."

He drummed his fingers on my knee. "I'm lost. I thought you were Kyle."

"I am, but… Remember when you asked me when I figured out I was bi?"

"Yeah?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that."

"You had a crush on your tutor. Doesn't seem that complicated to me."

"It was terrifying for me. I didn't understand why I was feeling the way I did." Sliced in between his thumb and forefinger was a crescent wound, red and scabbing over now. He cut himself the day before. I touched it. "I've made some bad choices, Craig. I've made many bad choices."

"Why are you being so severe? You were a child."

"As I said, it's much more complicated than that. I knew, but couldn't accept it. I wish I did. It would have saved me a lot of heartaches. I let my parents tell me who I was. A son, a brother, a student. Everything I was, was attached to a role - I didn't know who I was or what I wanted."

"You seem to know who you are now."

"Somewhat. I try to be the adult that child me needed. But it's hard, and I don't know if it actually matters at the end of the day. Sometimes, I feel like my own life doesn't belong to me."

"That's a very Quentin thing of you to say."

Fuck, more Faulkner.

"Well."

"Well. There was another guy, then?"

"Yeah."

"It was the guy in the photo, wasn't it?"

I bit my lip and nodded. "I think I did like him. Sometimes I didn't, though."

"Oh. Do you think he liked you too?"

"Not a chance. If there were any feelings, they were definitely one-sided."

"His loss."

That sick urge to laugh rose up, flittered into my lungs as I suppressed it. I scoffed instead. "No, it's my loss because he's fucking dead."

I couldn't look at Craig. I know he was staring at me, I could feel his eyes burning. If only I run away as I did before. My legs welded to his lap, he kept them there, waiting. My stomach sank so low it anchored my ass to the seat and there was no other safe space to go to. I could not bury myself alive in the garden, couldn't return to the kitchen with my mother and dough in my hands.

"Oh," Craig whispered. "Oh. Oh, God. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."

"I am too."

He cupped my face, grazing his thumb over my ear. "What happened to you?"

"I want to tell you everything. But I don't know where to start."

"Tell me however you need to. I'll listen."

*"The Sleepers" by Sylvia Plath