The cycle

The warm bitter taste of coffee and charred tobacco fills my mouth as your lips touch mine, passion filling my mind with things that I am sure cannot be. All of these things are meaningless, unless they drive me to believe that you and I will last forever, that there is something to us, more than this moment. I should know better, I should see it for what it is, two souls meeting in the night only to part even as we touch.
The bitter taste of alcohol doesn't fill the hole. It numbs my mind, until all I can think about is how much better I would have been if I had never seen your face that cool November morning. Sitting so statuesque, brooding over your cold cup of coffee, pen tilting slightly from your mouth, I think that morning it was Hemmingway you were reading, with an intensity only shared by bibliophiles and estranged writers of bad poetry.
I asked for the salt and you passed it to me brushing my hand as you reached down the counter, eyes still focused on your book. But that touch, that moment held some electricity, had you felt it? There was no way to be sure.
"Interesting book isn't it?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could.
"Hmm, oh, yeah, have you read it?"
"Not in years, but at the time it was one of my favorites."
"Well I am enjoying it, but if you don't mind my asking why is it not one of your favorites anymore?"
Your question took me off guard, were you really asking me it was that I turned an old friend out on their ear with the passage of time?
"Well, you know, times change, It was has been years since I read it, I was much younger then, much younger and much less optimistic."
"Do you mean you've gotten more optimistic as time has gone by?"
"In a way yes, the real problem isn't pessimism, rather it is that as I've gotten older I've stopped trying to save the world. I can make a difference but it takes a whole lot of work, instead I would rather debate with a cute co-ed about the meaning of a book"
"Well, tell me when you find one." you said with a smile.
"I'm Joel"
"Alexis, Nice to meet you."
With that our relationship began. Every Tuesday we would meet for coffee and cigarettes, every Tuesday talking of authors, theology, but most of all love. We didn't do it on purpose; it just came up between Emerson and Bradbury. We would sit and talk until the coffee was cold, and then we would talk some more. Every day the occasional random innuendo, every day closer to claiming one another as their own.
"Khakis'?" you had ask with such despair in your voice that I could only give you a repentful look.
"And I am still your friend?"
Would you respect yourself if a pair of pants changed that?"
"No, but how are we to change the world if we do not dress like oppressed workers? Burlap, Burlap is the fabric of our revolution. Not comfortable but functional, it does the job but it makes a statement."
"And what statement is that?" I asked amusement in my voice
"That we will not be slaves to fashion, to the whim of the magazines and television."
"Do you mean to tell me that we, the middle class white privileged of America, will no longer be slaves? We, who have good educations, will not be the oppressed anymore; we will rise up against the powers that be and overthrow them? Move over Dad, You cannot be CEO, you must fix the problems with the system!"
"Now you're being an ass"
"I forgot tell me again why we are at having our dear revolution?"
You rung your hands, lifted an eyebrow and said in such a bold voice that it was hard not to get excited. "You see comrade; civilization has gotten away from us. Too much corruption, too much greed, the system has failed us, and so as the founding fathers of the United States said so well, "that when ever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the Right of the people to alter or abolish it"
"And we must "abolish it" by the rejection of khaki pants?"
"How can we hope to overthrow a system that doesn't work by buying into its sense of style?"
Your logic amazed me, a piece of clothing was all that stood between you and your revolution. All that kept you from realizing true beauty in the world.
As the weeks rolled by I watched you squirm from one boy to the next. I admired the way you could be disappointed about one and hopeful for the next at the same time. None of them treated you right; this one was a jerk, this one moved too slowly. I watched this wretched procession and took notes. "Boys" was the right word; still playing schoolyard games with your heart.
"He told me that he loves me today."
"And how do you feel about him?"
"I really like him, he may be the one"
As weeks passed you seemed more and more uncertain until
"Joel what are you doing tonight?"
"I am just hanging out at home reading a book, what about you?"
"I had plans but he hasn't called me all week, I don't think he still loves me."
That was the way it went, each guy telling you what you wanted to hear so they could get what they wanted then, when it was over, then wouldn't so much as call you to tell you what had happened.
Oh, I watched you alright; drinking your coffee a thin smile to veil the pieces of your broken heart, a laugh that told me everything was not alright, but you couldn't seem to get out of it. I think you watched me too, hiding my feelings, deliberate avoidance. Sure it took different names but that was what it was.
"Are you going to go out with that girl again?"
"I don't have time when I get off work she is in bed, when I am done with school she is still working, something just doesn't feel right between us, I don't have time for that."
You were right to call it avoidance, I didn't want to get hurt again, didn't want to mess up again, that and I was waiting for you. It was another schoolyard game, I was hiding, waiting for you to seek, the funny thing is that I never let you in on the game; you didn't know we were playing. I never told you the reason I stayed so available, I was waiting for you to make the first move. Little did I know that you were waiting for me too. It really is a shame; two souls meet, so perfectly matched, not the same but close enough where it counted. We both had lists, pages of things we wanted in another person. What they had to believe, and think, and do in order to be with us. It was funny what we shared, where two overlapped and became one.
We both liked watching people in malls, fairs and concerts. We both enjoyed the idea of conducting random social experiments like walking through crowded place in monkey masks just to see what people did. We both loved listening to rain showers, and the smell of the mountains. We were both looking for love, but mostly we were both afraid, even though we could never say it. We were afraid of letting down our masks, even for a moment, to someone else; even if it meant we could grow from it.
As our friendship grew so did the tension. We were drawn together by ideas, personalities, and mostly a curiosity at the way that systems worked, and why we stayed in them. It was beautiful, to meet another in the silky blackness of the night, beautiful and somehow tragic; to know that sometime in the not too distant future it would all end. Then one day it happened, it was May, not long after the warmth had returned to our fresh spring evenings. The time we spent together was more frequent now; evenings were spent together, afternoons when you got off work early, Saturdays at the farmers market or the library, these had all become ours now. Where once there had been no one to spend our hours with we had each other. We had places, where before they were just places now were ours. We had someone to fall back on, someone to call at the last minute for a party or a late night show. I had found someone to buy flowers for just because. We had each other, friends, somehow wanting more.
We met as usual that day, in the same restaurant we had shared for months, sat as usual in our same booth, ordered the same coffee we wouldn't drink until it was far too cold and then, only then, could we begin the small talk.
"He was nice, he held the doors for me and called me the next morning but I don't think I will see him again."
"Why not, he sounds like a good guy."
"It isn't that, he and I just didn't connect, he will make a great addition to the army of frogs."
Your "army of frogs" consisted of boys who had not made the grade; the idea was that you had to kiss a lot of frogs to meet your prince. The idea fascinated me and then you cried.
"I just can't take this anymore," you had said these words many times before. "Why is it that all the guys I date are just not right for me, why are they all scum?"
"Boys," I corrected "they are just boys."
"Okay boys. Why do they all want to play games, why can't they be real with me?"
"Alexis honey that is all they know how to do. No one taught them right, not all men are like that."
"How do you do it Joel? How is it that you can go so long without dating, without seeing anyone but me?" Your question took me off guard, and I should have stopped right there.
"It's hard to move on with so much baggage, you're right, I let my past determine what I will do now. I haven't thought let it be a part of me and move on."
"But, you can't like being a prisoner? You can't like your cell."
"I'm not fond of it but it is what I know. I am more familiar with my solitude than the world out there. At least I can't get hurt anymore when I don't try."
"But you can't heal either. You can't let go of the old baggage unless you move with it and let it go as you no longer need it." With that you grabbed my hand, "you don't have to be afraid anymore Joel, if you don't let go you can't be truly free."
That electricity I had felt the first day we met returned and I knew it was now or never. So, with that our platonic relationship ended. I reached across the table and kissed you.