And Thus the Gates Did Open

I can't really explain why I did it.
I just did.

And right from the very beginning of the night something told me that drinking was a bad idea.
And yet I indulged.

It's beginning to seem like I'm rather prone to indulgent behavior.
I don't like that I'm seeing this trend in my character.
Then again, I'm glad to be taking note.

It started with a martini which was later amended by an americano with a shot of whiskey.
These vices were quickly followed by more whiskey only this time I had it framed in a chipper pool of ginger ale.

I could sense the tiny hairs on my cheeks going all mushy and they began to tingle a little. It was as if the carbonation from the ginger ale were creeping up the inside of the skin on my face. And while I enjoyed some reading, some writing and a few laughs, I slowly melted away from reality.
Ounce by ounce.

Drinks 2 and 3 were not enjoyed alone.
I was happily attended by Marc, Floyd, Julia and Michelle and together we managed a briskish conversation going from literary snobbery to the fashioning of a perfect runway gait.

By the time we all disbursed I was beginning to forget the snipping, cold air and think only of how I hoped my night would include a few choice romantic interactions with Sean.

God, I feel foolish now, looking back on the progression of things.
It's like I wasn't paying any heed to the facts.
I was drinking.
A lot.

I was biking.
A ways.

I was in a flippant and irresponsible mood.
A farce.

All signs pointed toward a more ascetic decision with regard to what (and particularly how much) I should have imbibed that night.
And yet I pushed the wisdom I knew away to make room for the next sip.

Quite frankly I'm surprised I wasn't more of an embarrassment earlier on in the course of the evening.

After saying my final farewells to Julia and Michelle I made my way over to Saucebox with a sluggish pedaling candor.
Locking my bike just outside the front door I felt the assault of heavily amplified music against my form. Every wave knocked into me with the clumsiness of a person rushing to get off of a bus.

In a slender moment of sobriety I realized that I was actually the person getting off and I was several stops too early.
In retrospect I ought to have gone all of the way home right then.
But who really thinks about these things when they've already gone farther than they really wanted?

Finding a seat in the dank, low lit, too warm interior was a bit of a trial but I eventually found myself perched against the bar. I watched Sean with his mechanical grace and urgent speed scooping ice, adding a splash of juice and silently counting out clear, pungent infusions.

He's so terribly good at what he does.
He's proud of it, I think.
And why shouldn't he be, he works hard (and without even a hint of competition) to be the best.
That seems to be the attitude he has about everything.
I think that's one of the reasons I respect him so much.

He asked me if I wanted anything and I left it up to him.
I tend to trust his ideas.
Moments later I was lighting yet another of the night's many, many (too many) cigarettes and tasting the beginnings of a fresh and soothing hot toddy.

Surrounded by friends and feeling social I passed the remainder of the hour in jovial conversation. I didn't want to pay attention to the insidious slurs entering my speech. The increasing difficulty in climbing on and off of my bar stool. The feeling that my body was in a permanent state of motion, like being suspended in water just beneath the surface.

Eventually the pushy music calmed to a ringing silence and the bar emptied.
Lights raised to a stark, white clarity.
This made my eyes hurt and the skin on my nape began to protest in silent tension.

I didn't care.
I didn't want to care.
I knew that the moment I started caring I would feel regret and remorse.

Sean made me another drink (I think it was a whiskey ginger) and told me that he was going to move my cigarettes and phone to the back table so he could finish cleaning the bar.
I remember feeling like I ought to have told him just how many drinks I had already had that night but something stupid told me that it would make me sound ungrateful or unappreciative.
Like I didn't want to accept his kindness.

He is always so kind to me.
So considerate.
He goes far out of his way to make me feel special, to let me know that I matter to him.
And that I matter a lot.
Again considering those moments in hindsight I see my flawed propriety and over care to refrain from giving any possible notion of distance.
It's like I was so intent on looking out for myself in my happiness that I neglected to look out for myself in my wisdom.

When we finally left Saucebox, Sean, David and I went over to Valentine's for a night cap.
(Incidentally, I fully recognized my then severe inebriation and yet I continued to feign a "moderate tipsiness" in order that I not appear foolish). I found myself upstairs, nestled into a worn leather couch with Sean, beer in hand, my body weary from the comprehensive poisoning it had endured throughout the duration of the still unfolding night.

We talked, we kissed, we stayed close to one another in a warm comfort.
And I finished my beer.

I think he had started to catch on.
I was far too smiley.
My sentences kept trailing off into unintelligible drivel.
I wasn't moving much.

When I finally got up to use the restroom I remember nearly tripping down the staircase, catching myself just in time to make it appear as if an unsuspected chair had simply surprised my sure feet.

I could feel Sean's gaze following me in a shepherding concern as I fumbled through the route from the mezzanine to the dark painted and beaten looking fiberglass door into the unisex bathroom.
I felt guilty.

I felt stupid and clumsy and I felt like I was disappointing him.

I've always been afraid of acting my own age and I have spent years trying to prove to everyone that I'm "just older inside." I remember once telling someone that I liked it when people assumed I was older because it made me feel like all of my efforts to that end were starting to show up in my constant behavior.

Closing the flimsy bathroom door I felt the inescapable youngness of my 22 years.
"See," said my own voice inside my ears, "you're just like everybody assumes you are."
I didn't even look in the mirror.
I couldn't bear the thought of staring my haggard, shameful self in the face.
Moments later Sean knocked on the door to check on me and I felt angry.
Not at him.
At myself.
"Great," there was my voice again, "now he has to babysit you. God, you're pathetic right now. You know better."

I grumbled something about being fine and tried to clean myself up enough to emerge looking at least somewhat credible.
Fuck it. It wouldn't have mattered if I had taken 2 minutes or 10, I would look just as slovenly and still be as drunk as I was when I shuffled in.

Sean and I walked out to the locked bikes with him calmly informing me that we would be walking over the bridge.

I don't really know what came over me.
I was still angry.
I was still ashamed.
I was still drunk.
But all at once I felt this urge to run away. To relieve him of the burden I was all too quickly becoming.
I quietly but determinedly mounted my bike and set off at a hearty clip. Sean began to yell after me, commanding me not to ride. If I had been less of an ass I would have stopped right where I was and realized the depth of care he had for me and my safety but instead I kept riding. I kept pushing and pushing, steering in jolted, noodling trails over the ridged gradient of the cement.

Upon reaching the other side of the bridge I suddenly realized that I had made a terribly mistake and the guilt I had begun to feel previously inflated into a crushing self-hatred. I halted my bike and stepped off, not bothering to survey the road behind me.
I knew Sean was coming.
He wasn't happy.

When the cold screech of his slowing bike frame pierced through the humming in my ears I looked up to see his face as he came to a full stop.

"Do you wanna fight me on this," he asked with a sad indignation.

My eyes fell as I quietly stated that I really shouldn't be riding.

"No," he replied, his voice settling, "now let's walk."

I didn't say anything. My throat had tightened to the point that all I could do was wheeze a tattered breath and nod without looking up from my crestfallen and dejected downward stare.

We walked for several blocks and I attempted to make conversation but all that ended up coming out were piecemeal snippets of different versions of "I'm sorry," and "I feel stupid."
I felt so low. So needy and unforgivable.

It felt as if attempting to ameliorate myself would be nothing but futile at this point so I instead went the route of self-implication.
But no matter what I said Sean refused to berate me.
He just walked with me, calmly reassuring me that we would soon be home, in bed, and he would hold me. Just hold me.

I wanted to accept him so badly.
I just wanted to grasp onto his words like a life ring and float above the surface of the expansive sea of self defeat I found myself floundering in.

But somehow I had convinced myself that I didn't deserve to be saved.
He was offering me life support and I was yanking the plug out of the outlet.

I was being such a baby.
A fucking child.
I was acting like everything I had always tried so hard to escape, to rise above.

And who would happen to have front row seats to the show but this man I loved so desperately.

"Why?"

The word forced its way out of my mouth like I had just vomited.

"Why what," asked Sean, stopping to look me in the eye.
I couldn't speak. In his face I searched intensely for a hint of blame, of disappointment, of something other than the beautiful comfort and concern etched in every feature. But there was no finding what simply wasn't there.

I found my voice. "Why are you putting up with me right now? I'm a mess. I'm an embarrassment."

He paused before responding. It's like he knew that I just needed to keep reading the care in his eyes for a few more moments.

And then he spoke,

"Because I love you, Noah."

For a brief moment I lost sight of all of the loathing and cruel scrutiny I had fixated upon myself.
Even in this most naked weakness I felt so, so happy.

I feel like I have a tendency to seek out happiness with a proviso of its fleeting nature.
That is, I want to be happy but once I am I begin to expect that it won't last.
I've allowed myself to make joy a conditional experience as opposed to a mindset and something I justifiably deserve.

We arrived at Sean's house and Aisha met us at the door in usual excitement. She nipped at my nose with a gummy snap and playfully jumped up, planting her solid paws just above my knees to make her ears all the easier to ruffle with my cold, dry palms.

She's such a beautiful creature with such a loving instinct.
It's like she knew I needed that little extra push of reassurance that I was, indeed, wanted.
She wanted me to be there. She wanted me to be with Sean, in her house.

The happiness I had been feeling (through the vague mask of a cloud of drunkenness) grew just a little more and I began to make my way upstairs.
Heading right into the bedroom I struggled to drop my heavy bag and kick off my boots.
They wouldn't budge.
I tried and tried and tried.
I couldn't get them to come off.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and surrendered to untying the laces.
And then it hit me.
What if this was the beginning of the end?
What if Sean was being sweet and caring for now but later on, reminiscing about the night when I made a drunken and childish fool out of myself, he would start to step out of love with me.

I tugged at the laces but even then they resisted.
I had made them all the tighter with the attempts to exit the boots by force.

Sean came in at that moment with a glass of water and sat down next to me.
I looked up at him and all of the newfound terror and confusion must have been written across my face because he considered my look for a moment and then matched it with his own confounded frown.

"Noah, what is it?"
He asked so innocently and all I wanted to do was kiss him and collapse.

So I did.

"Noah, what's wrong."

There was a smidgen of worry in his innocence.
I felt all of the air seeping out of my lungs as if they were made out of mesh.
My nape tightened again and the once mushy hairs on my cheeks now felt hot and uncomfortable like so many cactus barbs.
I found myself clinging to Sean's seated waste, my prostrate body curled around his like a shrugged off shawl.

"Please don't go away," I whispered in a dire sounding gasp.

"What do you mean," he replied. The worry was still there.
I clung to him tighter.

"Just...please don't go away."
The last syllable escaped in a screechy squeak as I felt the liquid heat of tears pressing its way up my throat.

"Noah, what do you mean, I'm not going anywhere." Sean's voice seemed to be getting more intentional. The worry was fully palpable now.

"Not now, no," I began in a quaky, meandering tone, "but please don't go away."
It was as if I was too overwhelmed to come up with anything else to say. Just then my chin jolted with the first staccato sob.
"I'm afraid."

At that moment I felt Sean's strong hands gently but firmly come under my arms and lift me to where he could wrap encircle my chest and speak right into my ear.

"What are you afraid of," he asked calmly.

I wrapped my arms around his neck like heavy scarves. I was crying now.
"I'm afraid you'll go away," I whimpered into his breast, wetting his shirt with warm salt water "I'm afraid you'll leave me- 'cause I drive you away by acting like this."
I crumpled into a slouching mess of convulsing pain putting my full weight onto the back of his neck.

"Noah," he said my name decisively. Strongly.
I was still too overcome to release the freedom of the sobbing.
"Noah," this time it came out quieter, hushed like an angel's voice, full of ethereal peace paired with a deep-seated adoration.

"I'm in this."
He said it like nothing else mattered.
"What I have with you...

... it's special...

...I love you."

As soon as I heard the last words I began sobbing with an epic fervor.
I became audibly racked with the rhythmic exhalations of the whole night's pent up fear, worry, embarrassment, shame, and hope for a second chance.

How could I have reduced everything I had experienced with Sean into something so menial, trivial even?

I was happy.
I deserved to be happy.
(There, I said it.)
I believed it, more importantly.

A few minutes more of the crying and phlegm and saliva I had calmed down enough to readdress my still-laced boots and was somehow able to convince the knots apart with my shaking, wet fingers.

Sean lay down next to me and stroked my cheek with the back of his hand and just looked into my eyes with a barely visible smile.
A smile that told me it was alright to be me.
It was alright to be 22.
It was alright to get drunk and ride a bike across a bridge.
It was alright to be afraid and to hold happiness suspect.

Just learn from it.



Just don't let it happen again.