I Hear It In My Head Real Low
“The only fright that’s caused my flight was love.” –Anonymous
It’s Thursday night, and I’m walking up The Writer’s steps. I watch as the sun sets into the hills. I’ve walked up these steps a hundred times and today is no different. I wonder if it ever will be. I pause at the door and take an exaggerated breath before pressing the bell. “Hiiii,” he says with his dumb grin, opening the door. Then he pauses and smiles snickering, “Why do you always look so depressed when you get here?” I ignore the question, sliding my arms around his sides for a hug. “What do you want for dinner?” He asks. “I’m indifferent,” I respond. “You’re always indifferent,” he says. I shrug and clear off my side of the bed…where I see a denim jacket. Not his denim jacket–he doesn’t have a denim jacket. I do his laundry, I know all of his clothes. “This is cute,” I say. “Yeah,” he says not really paying attention. “Is it new?” I ask holding it up. He looks up from his computer to take brief glance. “No, I think it’s Dalton’s.” “I love denim jackets,” is all I can muster. I place the jacket on the floor on top of a pair of jeans…also not belonging to The Writer, and get on the bed next to him.
“But really…what do you want for dinner?” He asks again. “Really…I’m indifferent,” I reply. He searches a couple websites for recommendations as if he doesn’t already know all of the options. “I kind of want pizza,” I finally say, getting hungry. “Pizza makes me puffy,” he says.
This is a new and probably short-lived “thing.” The Writer thinks he’s allergic to wheat (or more specifically pizza) causing his face to swell. When we go out, he refuses to order anything with wheat but insists on picking over my wheaty dishes. As a reactionary response, he’s become ridiculously obsessed with pizza when he’s drunk. It’s simultaneously adorable, endearingly irritating, and entertaining–much like The Writer.
“I’ve already had a carby meal today. Are you trying to make me fat?” He asks. “Don’t be dumb,” I say, pressing up against him to see what’s on his screen. “Maybe we should order from two places,” he says. “No, it’s fine. I’m really indifferent. I’ll order from wherever.” “I want a salad,” he says. “Now you’re really being dumb. You can get a salad from literally anywhere.” He agrees to order from the pizza place. “Can you call?” He asks. “Sure,” I say. He hands me his card. When the person at the pizza place picks up, they ask me for the address and cross street, which I have memorized. As I’m placing my order, The Writer stops me. “Actually…I want pizza too.” “Hold on,” I say to the person on the phone. After he provides some needlessly complicated explanation of what he wants and why he’s justified it to himself, I cancel the whole order and ask for a large cheese pizza. “And with those Parmesan packets,” he says. I nod holding up a “just a sec” finger, and he says it again, loud enough that the lady taking my order probably heard. “Can we get some of those Parmesan cheese packets?” I ask politely. “Yes sah. Twenty minute,” she says.
Thirty minutes later, we’re starving and the delivery guy has arrived. Only when the doorbell rings, he’s not at the front door. “He’s not here…” I yell to The Writer, who’s still in bed. “Huh? Oh.” Apparently there’s a secret doorbell by his garage…his house in kind of confusing. He gets up and walks barefoot down the sidewalk to meet the guy. The guy walks him back toward the front, and I hear The Writer say this “How much do you usually get tipped?” I don’t know why he says shit like that. Especially when he orders in several times a week. I just shake my head, and he walks back into his bedroom with the pizza box. Starving, I fling open the top and shove a slice in my mouth. “Oh my god. Where is the Parmesan?” It’s not there. They definitely forgot, but you’d think it was a fucking national state tragedy. “I don’t see them. Do you want me to call and have them…” “No,” he says disdained. The tantrum-level theatrics going on here force me to hold back a giggle. And then I don’t care. “I think they did it just to spite you,” I tell him. He doesn’t think it’s funny…then he does but only for a sec. “They’ve been plotting this against me for weeks!” “I bet they’re the ones who fucked up your back, too!” All to withhold The Writer’s Parmesan.
As we’re eating, a piece of tomato is about to fall off his pizza, but I catch it with a napkin. “You’re so much cleaner than Dalton,” The Writer says. He spilled everything all over our bed. “Yeah, and you didn’t?” The Writer pulls up the bedsheets and points to a couple stains. “Coffee, grape juice, more coffee, spaghetti sauce…” “Gross.”
When we’re done eating, The Writer takes the pizza box and puts it on the floor. “No,” I say, getting up. “Me civilized person. Me put pizza box in kitchen,” and I leave to do just that. When I return, he’s totally entranced in his email, so I start surfing the web. I find a website which takes screencaptures of people’s outraged Facebook statuses. Only, these statues are in response to satirical news stories. Pretty much all of the posts are dripping with a painful lack of education, cripplingly bad grammar, and religious fundamentalism–comedy gold. I show The Writer a post which is a response to a fictional multi-billion dollar, government funded abortionplex. How could that get funnier? People believing it’s real. Responses range from “ppl are litarally unbelievable” to falsely attributing quotes to Mother Theresa to blaming STDs on the use of condoms to calling it an “8 billion dollar baby Holocaust.” The camp and hyperbole is simply too much, and we nearly die laughing. After almost an hour of this, he tells me he’s going to post it to his Facebook. “But don’t comment on it,” he tells me. “I want people to think I’m the funny one.” “Oh, you’re positively hilarious,” I assure him with a certain amount of sarcasm. I feel so natural with him. He’s my best friend.
As we start to settle down for the night, we get a little chatty. “When are you going to get your nose surgery?” I ask. “Why?” He says worriedly. “Does it look messed up?” “Of course not!” I say. I honestly want to know so that I can plan on taking care of him–not that we’ve really discussed it.” “I’m not getting it anymore. Unless I absolutely have to.” “Why not? It’s broken.” “I don’t really need it and it’s like $5,000. I don’t know though. Maybe I’ll have some taken off.” He says in slightly smug way. The Writer’s nose is a little larger than average, but it’s neither unattractive nor distracting. It’s cute and suits his facial features. “Don’t.” “Really?” He asks. “I’d be upset if you did. It’s perfect the way it is.”
We decide to watch a movie, and he decides it’ll be The Rules of Attraction. “Have you seen it?” He asks, searching around the room for something. “No.” “Hey, have you seen my movie binder anywhere?” “No,” I say sleepily. He disappears out of the room, and I hear him shuffle around this house. A few minutes later he returns. “I swear to god, if Dalton stole my movie binder, I am never speaking to him again. He’s the most selfish…” “I can just download it,” I say. This calms him down a little bit. He texts Dalton to ask if he stole it. I’m not sure why–I mean, would you admit to stealing it? Dalton says he doesn’t know where it is.
We make it through most of the movie before I start dozing in and out. “Ian Somerhalder was so adorable back then, wasn’t he?” He says to me. “Mhmmm,” I reply. “Are you falling asleep?” He asks. “Mhmmm,” I answer. He shuffles through the covers for a moment to find the remote and shuts off the movie. I’m facing toward him–not optimum spooning position. He slides his foot between my ankles, facing me and pulling me into his arms. He holds me like he’s going to hold me forever, like we’re never going to wake up tomorrow Read the rest of this entry »