It's Getting Better All The Time

It was after the fourth beer that it hit me. I went outside for a smoke, and there was it was: a beautiful, dark, shiny Harley—just sitting there.

Even in the dim light, I could see that it wasn't exactly like your bike. But the color was close. Close enough to tear me out of the present and back into thoughts of you.

And it's not that it's unusual for a bike to be sitting at that bar. In fact, for a Saturday night, the biker population at The Pony was rather sparse. And maybe that's why that bike sitting there struck me the way it did. There were only two others in the lot, and this bike was off all by itself. It was also the only Harley. And between the color, and the light, for a moment—just a moment—I imagined that it was yours. That you were inside somewhere. Laughing. Having fun. Oblivious.

The thought made me laugh aloud in a bitter sort of way, and I took a picture and I sent it to you...

I went to my Jeep, then, and I laid down in the back. I was too drunk to drive, and not drunk enough to get you off my mind.

My mind is odd when it comes to thinking of you. There's a dam that can hold it back most times, but once one tiny thing catches that latch, and opens that gate, there is no stopping the torrent...

Laying there in the dark, I wanted to talk to you so badly. I don't even know what I would have said if I’d had you on the line.

For several long minutes, I was angry. And I wanted to text you again, and tell you not to do this to anyone else.

I am not sure, now, exactly what it was I thought you had "done" to me. Because in the clear, sober light of day, I recognize that my feelings are my own—that they are solely my own creation and responsibility. And as much as I might like to think so when I'm drunk, you didn't do anything to make me feel the way I do about you. Yes, the predisposition for these feelings was there, and you certainly did nothing to dissuade them (and, in fact, could even be said to have encouraged them). But you did not create them. I did that all on my own. Me, and my gullibility. And the little girl inside of me that still wanted so badly to believe that fairytales really do exist...

But in that moment, cold and alone in my Jeep, it was not the clear, sober light of day. It was dark, and I was not sober, and I'd had an immensely taxing day. I was sad and melancholy, and I was rummaging through old memories, mourning the loss of some intangible thing—whatever it was I thought we had, I suppose.

And in the non-light of that Saturday night, I wanted to tell you to not do this to anyone else. And while I knew, even then, that it wasn't strictly your fault, I knew also that there were things you could have done differently—things that you should do differently if you ever find yourself in a similar situation again...

Helpless and dangerous. You said that once—that being emotionally attached to me was a helpless and dangerous feeling.

You have exhibited neither helplessness, nor indications of dangerous feelings.

I never sent you that second message. I fell asleep huddled under my down jacket, curled on the backseat of the Jeep.

And I keep poking the spot that hurts, and I'll keep on poking until it's numb. I'll poke until I can look at your picture, until I can hear your voice, until I can listen to your music, until I can sit in my Jeep, until I can stand the feel of my own hair against my face...

I'll poke until none of it pierces my heart anymore. Until all emotion is gone. Until it's like I never knew you at all...

It’s getting better all the time.


Original post date: 12.22.2008