The Beds of Meserole Street

I walked past my old house yesterday evening, 180 Meserole Street. I had gotten off the Montrose stop and was on my way to a bar to meet up with a guy. The bar, The Graham, was located on the corner of my old block. He had suggested the bar. I probably would not have suggested a bar on the same block as my old apartment. There was a brief moment that came over me as I approached my old building, as I passed it, doing my best to look into my old window to get a glimpse of what lives might occupy the space I used to call home for a couple years. And then, as quickly as it came, the moment passed. I was past the building, on my way to this bar, this boy I was about to meet on my mind.

It's funny how time works, how several months ago I would have been made insanely emotional by walking down this block and how now there is a brief moment of me picking at old wounds that lasts only as long as the time it takes to walk past the place. In several more months, that moment may pass by even quicker, may take on totally different forms. I may notice a burnt-out lightbulb on the porch, think of how shitty the super and landlord were, and think nothing of a failed relationship.

Last night, I was also running late by a couple minutes and my main goal at this point was just to get to this bar as quickly as possible, to not be much later. I was also a little nervous, this my first time meeting this guy, T. These things, getting there on time and thoughts of the guy I was about to meet, took precedence over thoughts of 180 Meserole Street.

I saw him sitting at the bar as I opened the door and he was just as attractive as he is in pictures, an insanely handsome guy, and I didn't know how long this encounter could last, that this guy was too attractive, that he would have a drink and then find an excuse to leave. We talked about our days, what we had been up to. He already knew quite a bit about my life and then we talked about that, about how he knew so much about it, about my diary.

It is very likely that this person might be reading this entry and so I write all of this hesitantly, not wanting to alter anything organic that may or may not occur, that I want to let things run their course, for him not to think I like him too much and to pull away. And so quit writing, duh. Delete this entry, you say.

He found my diary somehow sometime ago and at some point wrote to me about it. I messaged him on Facebook. Last night, we collapsed a divide between digital selves and physical ones, met up in person.  I ordered one of the bar's beer and shot combos and was quickly smitten with how cute and nice this guy was.

We talked about what it means to have an online diary and the tricky difficulties about writing about people that may potentially read your diary, about whether to go about such a thing, and if so how. And, of course, here I find myself the day after this conversation encountering this exact dilemma, knowing that T is probably reading this.

We went into Manhattan and watched "Drag Race" at Heathers with some of his friends. We ate burritos at Zaragoza. We rode the L train back to Brooklyn together. I wasn't sure if we were going home together or not, whether this was a friendly hangout or something more. I was waiting until right before his stop to ask him if he wanted to come over. I was worried he would say no, and so wanted to minimize the awkward amount of time together on the train if he said no. He, however, beat me to the punch and asked me if I wanted to come back to his house. Obviously, I said yes.

When I woke up this morning in his bed, we cuddled for quite a while before getting out of bed and having some coffee. During this time still in his bed, he pulled his blankets over our heads and my eyes saw these blankets and my eyes saw the skin underneath them lit by just the smallest amount of light that penetrated the blanket's defenses. My field of vision had been narrowed to just slightly larger than this naked body next to me. The blankets also isolated his smell, trapped in it, his body odor the only thing I could smell. I inhaled deeply, wanted to remember what it felt like, what it smelled like in this person's bed this morning, how good it felt.