bandon & bidget

i drove to los angeles so i could sit in a room with her.

she'd rented an airbnb, a beautiful apartment with original softwood floors and cinderblock planters in the window. a record player. i brought two prescriptions, both of which i'd landed accidentally. i knew she had some history with opiates.

it was the end of a two-week heat wave. we kept the lights off and the curtains drawn. the ceiling fan whirred. we slid off our shorts without ceremony - it was just too hot.

we set the cup in the freezer and then slumped down on the kitchen floor, looking at eachother. inside the glass was frosting over, the powder was settling to the bottom. i wanted to lean over and kiss her. to press my thumb against the front of her thigh, right below her underwear, but of course i didn't.

she drank hers straight but i used grapefruit juice. we were lying back on the bed when i rolled my head into the crook of her arm and, suddenly, started crying. gripped by a moment of sad nostalgia - i can't remember about what. she did almost nothing to comfort me and this was oddly comforting.

then the cocoon, the laydown, the brownout.
the opening of eyes maybe hours hours later.

i wanted to wake her up with a kiss between her shoulderblades but of course i didn't. i climbed out of the bed sideways, careful not to touch. she didn't move.

drinking water, looking out at a brick wall, a settling sun. looking back at her twisted little body. mostly in love. knowing we couldn't be together but being somewhat at peace with it.