Brian.
He’s all I can think about as I pace the waiting area for my flight to be called, chewing on my thumbnail because I know, no matter how fast the plane flies, it will not be fast enough for me.
Brian.
Every time I think his name, my stomach flips and my heart squeezes over how many times he has let me go, let me fly, always the same look in his eyes, on his face, the one I can’t quite understand, have yet to decipher.
Brian.
The enigma of a man that demands I do whatever I need to do, to be my best me, though never accepting that it could possibly be standing next to him, no matter how much I insist that that is indeed the case, though inside, I protest too much, so I fly away.
Brian.
He that sees all and says nothing, says all, and sees nothing, the true man of mystery in all our lives, the proverbial open book that no one bothered to read as it lay about, gathering dust and rumor and legend of origin.
Brian.
It’s pouring rain in Pittsburgh and I don’t care as I race down familiar streets, too impatient for a cab, passing signs that now appear tawdry after the big city I’ve been living in for the last half dozen years until I reach the corner of Fuller and Tremont.
Brian.
Out of breath, hand shaking, I ring the buzzer, hoping I don’t have to speak, knowing I’m incapable, grateful the door unlatches and I’m admitted without announcement, taking the steps two at a time to the top floor, the memories all out assaulting me on my journey.
Brian.
The big door is open, so I don’t hesitate, running in and expecting to see him waiting, disappointed when he isn’t visible. I bend, prop hands on my knees taking great, heaving gulps of air as I drip rainwater on his hardwood floor, vaguely reminding me of the first night I was ever here and I was swamped with the image of his wet, drugged face, taunting me. The virgin me.
Brian.
I hear his footsteps descend from the bedroom, can feel his concern for my condition even before I look up to see his face, though it is there too, when I do, finally, look at him. That look is there as well. The indecipherable one. Though it isn’t anymore.
Brian.
I smile. I smile the smile of my youth. I smile the smile of my innocence. I smile the smile I haven’t smiled for eleven years, eight months, two days, and sixteen hours, give or take a few minutes.
Brian.
I didn’t know it until this morning. I didn’t know it until I was brushing my teeth and it slowly came creeping back into my mind as if it had never been gone, just never thought about. The memory. THE memory. The only one that really matters to me, and now knowing it, I understand now, the only one that mattered to him too, because it was the impetus for everything else.
Brian.
He sees it. He sees it on my face. That I understand now, that though I didn’t realize I was doing it, my guilt for asking him to be there, drove me away and that indecipherable look I couldn’t or wouldn’t recognize, was my guilt reflected back at me, and until I let it go, neither could he. Until I could, I would never be truly his, I would always choose to fly away.
Brian.
The book that no one read, but who understood others so easily, had no trouble reading me and my desire to finally come home.
Brian.
My belly flipped, my heart squeezed, when I saw what I had always been watching for when I looked at him, slip over his features as if they had been waiting just for me. That look, the one I last saw eleven years, eight months, two days, and sixteen hours, give or take a few minutes ago in a parking garage. The one that told me he loved me with everything he had, down to the marrow of his bones.
Brian.
He didn’t have to say anything. Neither did I. I already had my answer. I was ruining his precious hardwood floors. . . and he wasn’t complaining about it. Enough said.