Run to Me

You probably don’t care, but I’m going to tell you anyway.  I know you’ll listen—you have to—and you won’t look at me like they do:  those disapproving, judgmental glares, those penetrating eyes, those tightly pursed lips contorted into thin, straight lines like fishing line or the rims of your glasses.  Call me cowardly, but with you, I risk no pain from horrified reactions, negative response.  With you, there exists nothing but two ears to listen, or rather, two eyes to read.  With you, I can “purge my mind and free my soul”—as my therapist says—without worrying about what anyone thinks, because, yes, it does matter what all the spoiled, shriveled up, lazy tightwads with whom I live think about me.

If I learned anything from my freshman English teacher at that dreadful excuse of a high school it was this:  Telling a story creates a far more effective image in the reader’s mind than a simple description.  Unfortunately, I lack the time and energy—not to mention the capacity to maintain your interested attention—to convey the intensity of my relationship with Magdalena through just one anecdote.  I love Lena (that’s my nickname for her) with all of my heart, perhaps a little more than I originally anticipated.  The first time I met her, she seized my hand, and I immediately succumbed to her overwhelming force and allowed her to guide me, full speed, into my impending love for her.  Too bad I couldn’t see how much that love would cost me or to what extent I would feel it—her power had forced me into a drugged stupor for which nothing in my life could have prepared me.

We talked for hours about everything:  God, existentialism, love, wine.  We agreed on almost everything, and what we didn’t agree on we argued over with such ardor that, if we had been lovers, we would’ve concluded with the most passionate of embraces, to be hypothetical.  From that moment on, we spent far too much time in each other’s company, doing everything save sleeping in the same bed together, and thus the platonic relationship continued for the duration of our college years.  Yes, I said platonic.  I know what you’re thinking:  it sounds like a lot more than that.  But I assure you that it’s not, so try and keep your mind on a leash for now.
Maybe I’m writing in past tense because it makes it feel less real to me, or less painful.  The truth is, although the plot of the story occurred in the past, our relationship hasn’t changed one bit since all this happened.  No one spoke of the event the next day or any day thereafter, so I’ve questioned the reality of it many times.  I’ve tried to explain it away as a lucid dream or a strange figment of my own demented imagination brought on by faulty memory.  The mind plays tricks on the memory, but I don’t just remember this; I feel it.  It has to be real.

Remember how I said Lena and I did everything save sleep in the same bed together?  Well, I lied.  Please don’t be offended; I just didn’t want you getting the wrong idea right away.  The truth is, Lena and I spent the night together almost every night, but keep a hold of that leash on your mind because we only slept, nothing more.  We slept next to each other and might have cuddled from time to time, but only because it’s always nice to be held.  I spoon with my stuffed bear, and a few nights a week Lena replaced my bear.  Don’t tell me that’s not completely innocent.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about Lena’s older, outgoing, and possessive friend Katie.  I found Katie obnoxiously loud—the kind of loud that makes you wonder what she’s hiding—and I failed to see why Lena adored her.  But I didn’t have to wonder very long. 

One night, the three of us were sitting around Lena’s room listening to music and talking until we were so tired our lips refused to move and around 4 a.m., sleep finally enveloped us like a soft, blue blanket.  First, let me set up the scene so you’ll understand clearly.  All three of us lay on Lena’s double bed, and if Lena had been on her back, it would have been Lena in the middle, Katie to her left, and me to her right.  We were spooning, though, out of habit.  About an hour into my slumbers, I awoke to a hand slipping itself gently into mine.  Lena and I have held hands many times before, just as friends, so I quietly wrapped my fingers around the hand offered, gave it a friendly squeeze, and attempted to resume my sleep until I was awoken not five minutes later by what sounded like Katie whispering something to Lena.  I strained my ear in order to decipher what she might be saying, but all I could make out was the word “please” among many grunts and moans in response from Lena.  The noises escalated in volume and peaked my fascination with what was going on less than two inches behind me.

After a few minutes of this intently listening to this exchange, I finally decoded what sounded like a moan of consent from Lena’s side just before regaining cognizance of the small hand that was holding mine.  Its grasp had suddenly become much firmer, and, without knowing why, I had unconsciously responded with a stronger grip in return.  Finally, I heard it:  the sound of two pairs of lips joining in sudden desperation.  At first, it sounded slow and timid, but the passion caught up and settled in almost immediately.  An entire cacophony of sighs and moans floated into my ear as I lay there on my side, staring at the wall, grasping that hand as it wrapped tighter around me with every kiss.  Her body remained in the spooning position we so often assumed, facing my backside, but I could tell her head had twisted around to face Katie’s.  I felt Katie’s hand brush my back as it searched for an effective place to grasp in an attempt to force Lena closer to her, and each time she tried, I felt a pleading squeeze from the hand intertwined with mine.  Or at least I chose to interpret it as pleading. 

I knew exactly what was going on behind me, and to be completely honest, I can’t say I felt any sort of shock.  In fact, just the day before, when we had all been drinking with a few other friends, I noticed something out of the ordinary.  Somewhere between the sixth and tenth beer, our comfort level with each other had increased, our modesty had decreased, and we had began expressing our undying love for each other, as so often happens when excessive amounts of alcohol are introduced.  Lena decided to express her love with a kiss on each of our lips, except Katie’s.  At the time, I barely noticed, but the scene kept replaying itself in my mind as I lay there in Lena’s bed—Lena’s desperate attempt to offer a kiss of friendship followed by Katie’s shameful refusal.  The more I thought about it, the more sense the current situation made.

But there rest that hand.  It grasped mine so tightly that I couldn’t help but think it meant something—some sort of plea for help or understanding.  I felt as if Lena were importuning my forgiveness and attempting to stifle my judgment before it harshly passed itself on her.  And I kept my hand there even if it killed me.  I loved Lena, like I said, probably more than I should have.  I knew she didn’t like what she was doing, or at least I thought I knew.  With every squeeze of my hand she told me that her actions were completely against her desire.  She was merely providing a lost friend with a bit of support in whatever form required of her, and I did the same by grasping her hand tightly in return.  I showed Lena I understood whatever she felt she had to do, and I loved her nonetheless for it.  We all need support in different shapes, which made themselves tangible in that bed that lost night:  three abandoned friends providing support for each other in the most raw and purest forms.  We all feel lost in some way or another, and whether we offer our body or hand, a friend’s embrace may be all we need to get us through another lonely night.