Hermosa

November 8, 2016

November 8, 2016

Diego,

[From a journal entry back in May:]

"The thing I think about most?

Your hands – the scars on your ring fingers

The feel of your fingers' lengths as they lace through mine

I see everything in indigos and pinks on days like these.

The scar under your eye

The flecks in your iris

What vortex is this?"

I'll be honest, Bear. I've probably been awake too long, and this letter isn't going to make a lot of sense. Long story short, I had to be in Dickson late last night to see about a dog. Then I was up again by five a.m.

I wanted to say that I remembered this on the road somewhere in between the time when the sky is purple and the time when the sky is a deep blue. All the cars were missing, hills in the way creating twists and winding. You read it over my shoulder and said, "I like that." Those last months were full of short statements, all the words meant to lack weight but feeling heavy.

I asked you once a century ago, "What are you doing?" You had your thumbnails pressed into the knuckles of your second to last fingers, hands resting on your knees.

"I don't know," you said, "I used to do this a lot when I was a teenager. I stopped for a long time, but I've been doing it again lately. I shouldn't, though. They're already scarred pretty bad."

Taking both of your hands in mine so that I could examine, there they were. On each hand, you had the same scar the size of a dime covering the bends of your fingers. "Do I make you nervous?" I asked.

In that higher pitched voice that you used when you wanted to be cute, you answered with an elongated, "Maybe."

How many hours did I spend studying you? If I were given a test on your anatomy, there's no way I'd miss a mark. You stopped digging as quickly as I'd noticed, but for a moment in time, I was someone who made you feel anxious. Isn't it funny how another person can bring that out – that anxiety?

I hope this person likes me.

What are they thinking?

Do they think I'm attractive?

Did I remember to wear deodorant?

Is it weird that I keep looking at their mouth?

Would they be uncomfortable if I kiss them now?

I should just kiss them and stop thinking about it, right?

Are they feeling what I'm feeling?

How can I get them to tell me what I want to hear?

What if they aren't thinking what I want them to think at all?

What if, what if, what if..?

You had many scars, just like all bodies. You had one tiny white mark on the back of your right hand for which you couldn't place an origin. In 2013, you got a new scar on your left leg from a nasty skateboarding accident and a permanent bend in your clavicle to go with it. That same year, you worked matching scars onto the front of each knee while we were having sex on the floor of my studio apartment.

Most impressive of all, though, is the scar under your eye that is usually hiding under the thick dark rims of your glasses. It was April 2012 when three men surrounded your car in your driveway in an attempted robbery. One guy pistol whipped you, stole your wallet, and disappointed at its emptiness, abandoned the wallet on a street corner a half mile away for the police to find the next day. I'd be lying in bed as we stared at each other's faces when I'd notice that scar. You probably wouldn't have told the story if I hadn't asked. That just wasn't you, Dee, to volunteer information about yourself. You assumed the world did not want to know you, and you waited to be proven wrong.

Tonight, I've mostly been staring at shadows on the ceiling. I got off at four, but instead of taking a nap, I had the idea to stay awake until nine. It's not six o'clock. You know me. When I'm this tired, I just lay around pouting and getting progressively poutier.

When you would get depressed like this, it was because you felt like your life wasn't improving – like you weren't doing anything important. Today, I can relate. It's not true. Things are getting better, but I'm just so tired. My knee still hurts. The nerve endings in my feet are exploding. Change doesn't happen fast enough.

I hope your changes are well, that you aren't sad anymore.

Love,

Jules