space

Sometimes I leave work and head straight home, just to think about you.

Sure, you drift in and out of my consciousness during the day (almost every day, sometimes all day). But I typically keep you at arm's length until I can be alone in my apartment, locked behind my bedroom door.

I draw the curtains, undress to my underwear, and lay down in bed. Then, I close my eyes and turn my body away from the window, just so I can find you in the space where no one else can. About four feet of dark, empty space between the wall and me. That's our space.

This bed. This bed used to be our space, too. In fact, right here, right where I'm laying. This is where you slept. On the left side. On a plot of memory foam you claimed the first time you slept over. Overnight, my bed became our bed.

I live with a roommate in a small, third-floor apartment in the Lower Garden District with a balcony overlooking the skyline anchored by the Superdome. The view is worth the rent, but common space is limited. So my bedroom (and the bed that imposed on more than half the square footage) was our only sanctuary.

Here, on a weekday afternoon in October, we fucked for the first time. I won’t say we made love because that would come after — almost immediately after — when we fell in love. Weeks later, on a frigid December night, you wrapped me in your hulking arms and traced your nose along the crest of my neck. In the muted moonlight, I could see the tattoos winding and weaving across your hands and forearms. Here, for the first time, suspended in the moments before sleep, I felt myself loving you. It slid up from the foot of the bed and covered the both of us.

I inhale and I can smell you. Old Spice deodorant and menthol cigarettes. Then suddenly, my phone buzzes and I’m alone in the dark again. I twist and slap around until I touch vibrating glass. I absently click buttons until the buzzing stops, then softly lob the phone onto the floor.

Today is Wednesday, which means trivia night at Finn McCool’s. Also, Torres is playing at One Eyed Jacks in a few hours. I should probably text Kylie back. I’m not going to make happy hour at Tsunami.

I’ll make plans later. Maybe I’ll catch up on TV. Or do some writing or some laundry or both.

But right now, I just want to relive the moments when I first knew I loved you.

In the space where it was just you and me.