I hope this isn't too weird, but I was reminded of you
tonight as I shared a hospital bed with a good friend of mine (hopefully, I've
remembered it all correctly!). She is dying from liver failure due to years
of intense alcoholism. I haven't seen her for quite a while and I was shocked
at her condition. She doesn't look good, her eyes jaundiced and her skin
fevered. She's experiencing a lot of pain. It was difficult to watch her and I,
the healthy one, winced any time she moved. I wanted to do more, but I could
only sit on the edge of her bed, talk, try to rub the ache out of her hands. I
looped my fingers through hers, rubbed my index finger in the webs between her
fingers, the ridges of her tight, hard knuckles, remembering how you did the
same to mine one night in Ogunquit, ME.
Rubbing her palms, I told her that you were the first person
I noticed that evening when I walked in the door of the Main Street Bar, that I
thought you were exceptionally handsome, and that I didn't think I'd have ever
get a chance to snag your attention. I told her how surprised I was when you
appeared at my side to tell me you thought I had great hair and offer me a
drink. She smiled when I explained that--caught so off guard by your flirting
with me--I didn't know how to respond and fled. I bought my own drink, but I
still watched you as you eyed the eye-candy and laughed with your friends.
I told her how later that night, accompanied by showtunes
and power ballads, I saw you at the piano bar, uncertain about how I should respond
to your attention. I shared with her the thoughts, the insecurities, the
questions and the plans the prospect of you-in-that-night inspired. I told her
you traced my hands with your fingers and said you thought I had beautiful
eyes; I wasn't sure if I believed you, but I wanted to. I told her that while
walking on the street to our friends' cars, you invited me to extend the
evening at your place. I remember feeling flattered and happy and drunk and so
goddamn inexperienced; I was a little scared about what you would've thought
(or not thought) of my range of talent. Ever practical and responsible, I told
you I didn't have a car and rehearsal would come bright and early the next
morning.
She asked if I kissed you goodnight. I replied that although
I really should have, I didn't. She asked if I saw you again. I told her we
shared a few text messages, that I looked for you whenever I was in Ogunquit,
that I have wished I could have seen you more often than not. She wanted to see a photo of
you, so we looked you up on Facebook. I must admit, I agreed when she said she
thought you were gorgeous. I told her that--still, how many months later?-- I
regret the fact that I didn't go home with you. I wonder how, if I had, the
paths on which we walk might be different. I told her that I wonder if you ever
think of me and that I hope life is treating you well, bringing you some
success and happiness.
And so, trying to avail her some bit of comfort, I rubbed my
dying friend's hands and gave her something I find beautiful: the memories and
dreams I made of you one summer night in Maine.
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