Polaroid by author, Gainesville, Florida 2006
It was the middle of December and we were freezing. Even though we were in the South, it felt like real winter. My memory says it was the coldest night that winter but it’s been so long. I sat next to you on the top of the tallest parking garage on campus; we could see the agriculture college’s fields of sick oranges if we squinted. No one else was in the garage. Classes had let out for winter break the day before. When we reached the top floor in my red compact, I accelerated to frighten you and then braked at the last minute into a parking spot; your breath got caught in your throat before you laughed. I eventually turned off the car and we sat together feeling the cold air seep into the car. I didn’t look at you as we sat silently.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I said, squinting my eyes at the lampposts that lined the building.
“Then just tell her you’re hanging out with me,” you said, your hands palms down on his jeans.
“I can’t. She wouldn’t understand and if I told her after the fact, she would think I was hiding something.”
“Why can’t you hang out with me again?” You turned your face to look at me.
“Because she thinks you’re still in love with me and she doesn’t trust me.” I stared forward.
“Oh. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter whether I am or not because she’s too insecure to trust you.”
“She’s been hurt before, it makes sense that she doesn’t trust people easily.” I tucked my foot underneath my other leg.
“That’s not an excuse to read your text messages while you’re in the shower.” You stared now.
“I know it sounds bad but she was just freaking out that day,” I snapped.
“Okay. I just worry. She sounds controlling and it worries me.”
“You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
I turned towards you and leaned back against the driver side door. You looked at me and it felt eerily familiar. You smelled how you did when we were together in the past but even more so you. I remember the first time you injected a dose of testosterone, the sun setting into twilight as we sat in our bedroom alone. I handed you an alcohol swab and the syringe and bottle and you handed them back immediately with shaking hands. From my knees, I pulled down your underwear, filled the syringe with the correct dosage, wiped a spot on your ass with alcohol, and held you still with my hand as I pushed the needle and then the plunger in. I held the alcohol swab over the injection site for a minute. You pulled up your underwear and came down to your knees to wrap your arms around me. We held each other for a long time knowing how huge this moment was for you, then for us. I remember how your skin, your voice, your hair, your body, and even your smell became different and how I loved every single change that made you more yourself.
Now almost two years later, we sat in my car and looked at each other for a long time, the way we had when we used to lay in bed together before falling asleep, our eyes used to the dark. The car had grown cold and we could see our breath. You tilted your chin up a bit.
“Do you want to see my chest?” you asked.
“What?” I was caught off guard by the question just for being the first thing said in a while.
“I want to show you my chest, the scars have basically healed by now.”
I thought about how we had visited surgeons together, me the supportive friend or girlfriend depending on where our relationship had fluctuated to that given day asking questions and taking notes on everything mentioned. We sat on our couch with all the info in front of us many nights trying to figure out who was the best choice, where we would have to go and stay, what would recovery look like, so many details. We broke up before you actually had surgery but I had been secretly pleased to see that you had picked the surgeon I liked the most. I was far away the day they put you under and gave you the chest that you saw yourself having but it made me happy to think my obsessive notes and research had led to a result you were pleased with.
“Of course,” I said, my breath in front of me. I turned the car back on so you wouldn’t feel cold without your shirt on.
You took off your jacket and shirt and I immediately realized that in all of our time together exploring each other and so many places, I had never seen your chest. You always wore a binder during sex and I got it. I laundered them to make sure you always had a clean one available, so you would never feel uncomfortable at not having one to wear. Taking you in, I felt like I was seeing you for the first time; you felt it too. Suddenly I was the gazer and you were the gazed upon, reversing what had been standard in our relationship. My body on display, my body worshipped and focused on, my body acted upon; now you were present in your skin in a way I had never seen from you before and I intensely felt the shift in our chemistry and dynamic.
“You look so good.”
You smiled all the way up to your eyes and looked at me through dark lashes.
“Is it weird that I wanted you to see it?”
“No, I think I get it. Thank you, I’m so glad you did,” I said softly.
It was strange to think that I wasn’t there for this huge moment in your life, what used to be our life. It kind of broke my heart that I wasn’t the person next to you when you woke up from surgery. I looked at you now as you radiated contentment in the most visceral way. Before I knew what I was doing, I had reached my hand out to softly touch your chest. I instantly realized what I had done but you caught my hand and held it there. You held my hand in yours and moved it over your warm smooth skin. My fingers stopped on the healed raised scars for a minute before I pulled my hand back; we sat quietly looking at each other. You got up and crawled into the backseat, sitting in the corner opposite me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I can’t be that close to you anymore.” Our backs were against our respective parts of the small car.
“Oh.”
I turned the car on and we listened to a mix cd. Regina Spektor came on and we both hummed along; I skipped over “Two of Us” by the Beatles, it had been one of our songs. We were as far apart as we could possibly be in that moment and it was torture. Each movement made us alert, more aware of each other. It took all we had to not touch.
Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Only Living Boy in New York” came on next and we were quiet. You had been back in town for a month after surgery and time working at Yellowstone, something we were going to do together; a month before our start date, we broke up and you went without me. Everything was up in the air when you left town and there was no closure. Now you were moving in a week, leaving the state. This is why I’d agreed to see you at all. I’d spent weeks avoiding you at the behest of my girlfriend who was paranoid about our relationship. To this day, I’m still not sure if my feelings for you were rekindled on their own or because she planted and watered a seed about it in my brain. Regardless, I called you as soon as she went out of town with her sorority sisters and asked you to go to dinner with me. I didn’t want you to leave without saying goodbye. I wasn’t sure what I wanted beyond that. I told myself that this was fine, that I just had to see someone who had been so important to me. I looked up at you and we seemed to have the same reaction to the song. I cleared my throat.
“Will you sleep with me tonight? Just actual sleep,” I said. Even as I said it, I can’t believe I was doing this. You took a minute before answering.
“Yes. I’m saying yes even though I know this is a terrible idea.” You. looked worried.
“I know. Come on.” I turned around in my seat.
You climbed back into the front seat and we left the parking garage. I drove the few minutes to my house and we stood at the front door while I fumbled with my keys in the cold. You took them from me and unlocked the door as I put my hands in my pockets. My roommates were asleep and we walked the long hallway to my bedroom. You followed me inside and I dropped my bag on the floor and took off my jacket. You kept yours on and stood awkwardly waiting for my cue. I took off my pants, left on my shirt and climbed into my bed; I held the blanket up for you to lay down next to me.
We hadn’t been in bed together in so long. For a split second I thought we would forget how to hold each other but as soon as you scooted close against my back, it was all there. It had never been so dark in my room and yet I could see everything. I felt everything, too, the nearness of you as we held each other, the way my blood seemed to throb in my veins, calling for you after so much time. You held me for a long time and then you untangled yourself and stood up.
“I can’t do this. I don’t want you like this,” you said, standing next to the bed and looking down at me.
“What’s wrong?” I sat up quickly.
“You have a girlfriend and no matter how fucked up I think that situation is, this is not how I want this.” You didn’t move a muscle.
“I know. I’ll drive you home.”
I got out of bed and put on my pants and jacket again. We left my house and we drove in silence to your place. I parked in front of it and we sat for a while without speaking. I knew this would be the last time I saw you before you left, maybe forever. I moved towards you and hugged you, my arms around your neck. Your arms wrapped around me and I could feel your fingers walking over my ribs. We stayed that way for a good twenty minutes before we finally let go of each other and stared at one another.
“If you still want me, really want me, you know where I’ll be,” you said, your hand on the door handle.
“Yeah, fucking Maine.”
“It’s not that far when you think about it.” You opened the door and got out. Slamming it, you walked away into your place without looking back.
I sat there for a while before driving home. When I got home, I hugged the pillow where your head had been and cried as I fell asleep that night. I changed the sheets the next morning and when my girlfriend got home from her trip, I smiled and acted normally. I did this for three more months. As the space between her and I grew over this time, I realized that perhaps Maine wasn’t that far away at all. Maybe distance is the least of our worries when it comes to love; maybe it just depends on the kind of distance.