I remember the first time I had to drive myself to the emergency room, leaving my ex sleeping in the first bed we ever shared. My eardrum had blown out, and he didn’t care. I dragged myself sideways down the emergency room corridor, and with little hearing I remember the hollowness of my voice when they asked me if I came alone, the echoing “Yes” sinking what felt like forever from the back of my throat to the bottom of my spine. I could barely hear the outside world, and I was alone. Yes, I was alone, much moreso than the nurse realized, and I realized it right then. A random stranger was more interested in my wellbeing than the man whose cum I still had inside me.
I wonder if my literary friend looks like Alan Rickman now. It’s been many years, and he did have that potential. He was amazingly gay, in the classiest way possible. Meaning he was brilliant and deserved the highest respect without even considering him as a sexual, or even human, being. And that respect was ironclad and untouchable even if you found him passed out on a trail in the woods covered in nothing but glitter and dirt at 10am on a Tuesday.
I can’t wait until all this is over and I can hug my dad again. We both brought plastic sheets so that we could hug each other. We still didn’t.