Birds

We didn't have many rules then, but the sound of birds chirping to announce a new day was always a sign to quit drinking and go to bed. It didn't matter if we were in the middle of pushing shopping carts full of drunks down the steep alley next to the house, balancing on walkway edging singing "Me And My Shadow", or simply sitting on the front porch bench, my head in his lap, talking. Sometimes we'd steal a morning paper from the bundle dropped on the opposite side of the street. Other times we'd head inside to pass out on the filthy sofas lining the huge living room. My favorite times were when he'd look at me, shake his head, almost grin and say "Let's go" in a voice feigning resignation. A few times he even accidentally added "home" to the end of his statement. I'd grab his hand and swing it gleefully between us like an over-excited child as we drunkenly navigated our way down the steep hill, toward his apartment. He'd mutter and grumble while trying not to smile as he looked at me through the corner of his eye. I drove the two blocks more often than is prudent to admit. We'd stumble inside and throw ourselves on his bed, where we'd sleep, lacking even a kiss goodnight, with only a few rare exceptions to the routine.

One of those exceptions occurred on a night where I was so far on his side, butt pushed toward him, that he had no choice but to put his arm around me. He told me years later that he was just trying to avoid being pushed off his own bed. Unfortunately for him, when I stayed with him often, we talked about everything except us, so I took his arm around me that night as a sign he liked having my butt sticking as far toward him as possible. I spent many nights consciously pushing my butt closer to him, in hopes of recreating the feel of his arm around me as I slept. Poor John. Surely my drunk ass snored and farted all morning,(beer is not my friend while I'm sleeping, or so I've heard) but he never said a word about that.

We didn't always end up sleeping chastely next to each other after drinking, sometimes we were sober. Occasionally he'd stay in for a night or two, and I'd call him, asking if he wanted company. He always said "No, but you're welcome to come over anyway." So I'd grab a book and head to his apartment. I still stayed, we still didn't touch. I was probably more obnoxious with my butt pushing while sober. All of this may sound as if John didn't want me there, but I'm 99.9% sure that wasn't the case most of the time. He bought me a toothbrush, maybe just to get me to stop using one of his, but probably not. (Yeah, ick, gross, yeah, yeah, I was wasted every time I did that.) When he did his grocery shopping, he stocked up on the two foods he knew I would eat -- frozen pizza and chicken fingers. He called me several times, asking for a ride home, having walked farther to use the phone to call me than his apartment was from the bar.

Despite how it probably sounds, despite how it turned out between us, I know he loved me. Everyone else knew it too. John liked to say that he had social skills, he just chose not to use them. He rarely greeted people with more than a grunty nod and half wave from wherever he was standing. One of his older friends started freaking out one night when I walked into the room and John quickly walked over to greet me with a smile. His friend kept going on and on about how he had never seen John smile like that as a greeting, let alone walk over to greet a person. Another friend told me it was obvious to all the guys that John and I were in a relationship, wether we knew it or not. I made some smart ass comment about not getting laid, or doing anything else for that matter. The guy I was talking to enjoyed having a
reputation as a male slut. He looked at me and said that sometimes there was a whole lot more to being in a relationship than getting laid, and John and I obviously shared something like that. Years later, two pretty serious boyfriends who met John asked why he and I weren't together. The only answer I've ever had was "I don't know."

To be continued (maybe) . . .