Libra Ascendant

The 18th of August was my last day. Under the deadline of the solstice, my days lived like animals. At the start, from June to waxing August, they yawned and stretched like lions in the sun. Towards the end, the sun fell and the hours prowled and crept. Work, function; going out; eggs and toast and coffee in the morning, slow day, work; lively, heated board games; movies. These were my preoccupations. They compacted the days and for these gazelle, day and night coiled and waited. Time is a nocturnal hunter.1

The romantic in me cried for paradise lost; the cynic carved a coffin for his youth. I ignored them. They were just histrionics, anyways. Pardon the soliloquy.
Without the heat of her lingering on my fingertips, what would guard me from the frost of adulthood? Without knowing the summer scent of her, what would anchor me to my senses? She gave me a pair of her panties, as a gag. They are rich with her aroma; not the carnal perfume of sex - they are freshly washed of course - but her detergent, like a plastic springtime, and something more. An ineffable, magnetic odor.2

I am a student of you-ology. It is an exact science. There is no room for uncertainty.3

We're in the den of my house. It's an unfinished home, and at first glance: "Sometimes I forget how much of a shithole this place really is," she said.4

"Mmmmmm. Take it all in," I exhort, wafting the air with my arms, "You probably won't be seeing much more of it."5

"You're depressing," she says, "You don't think your sister and I will hang out after you move away? Carly and I are friends."6

"Yes," I say, "But I'm obviously the glue."7

These types of campy expressions, the gestures and accents, were an identity, but they were also real in a way that frankness wasn't. They were a way to be genuine without being vulnerable, and they were a crucial part of the ballet of lost intimacy. 8

My sister and my friend walked into the room. Everybody always thought that they would "get together", but they are two very different people. For a second, I'm in another world: David and Carly, and myself and Madolyn, are at a table in my father's restaurant. David puts his arm on Carly's shoulder. Madolyn turns to me and puckers her lips mockingly. I kiss her.9

She is firm like the end of autumn.10

I throw the scene from my mind. It is a cloud, and I fire a rocket at it and watch the pyrotechnics.11

"Did you roll, Mad-so-lyn?" my sister asked.12

Madolyn tucks her legs underneath her like a monk and chants a ridiculous mantra. 13

"Give it time, Chuckhopper." We always called my sister Chuck. It was a conversation starter. "The rolling of the die is like a fifteen-year-old's virginity. Handled gently, it will blossom into something beautiful that likes purses and reads Cosmo."14

She throws the die on the floor and comes out of her interior monologue.15

"Purple! What now, bitches?"16

"Fine," I said, "Pick a category."17

"Data Head. You read."18

I pull a card from the red holder. Multiple-choice and fact-based questions.19

"Selectaquest. I will read the question on the card aloud and pass it to you, blah, blah, blah. Is the food in the picture sushi or sashimi? You'se gots one minute."20

I hand her the card. 21

She and Carly debate for a while. 22

"What the hell is that thing? Is that wildlife? What the fuck?" Madolyn asks.23

"I think it's sashimi."24

"Why?"25

"It looks fancy."26

"Sure, we'll go with sashimi."27

I've already seen the answer on the back, so I groan out loud. 28

"What," Madolyn asks, "Did we get it right? We got it right? Hellls, yeeeeeah."29

After she moves her team’s game piece ahead a space, she flops down so that she takes up two of the three cushions on my couch. Her hair is less than a foot from me, arrayed like a feathery halo behind her head. I tense my fingers, curl them in where I won't be tempted to do anything. I know I am betraying something on my face.30

She hands me the die. I could probably take the little plastic polyhedron gingerly, without touching her at all. Probably. But I don't. I relish every cell of mine that touches one of hers. We're all romantics; we just need a good excuse. There has not been a moment for days that I don't try to persuade my nerves never to let go of the feel of her skin against mine. 31

But August is unstoppable, and eventually this - like all past loves - will dissipate like the melting snow in March.32

The end of the night draws near.33

We're eating to-go from the restaurant, laughing and thinking and watching the minutes vanish. Watching "No Country for Old Men." Watching the disappearance of youth and hope and romance. Watching videos on YouTube. 34

In the dark, for a second I think I feel her put her head down on my thigh, with her hand on my arm. I look down. My cat looks up at me and mews invitingly.35

We're friends. We will always be friends. Consequently, I will always be only fractionally human. I think of what fraction that might be. 8/14, perhaps. Love is a big fan of irony.36

At the end of the night, we all come to the silent consensus that the evening is over. Madolyn gets up to go, and I turn the lights on. We groan as it gets brighter, we yawn, we stretch and we stand. Everybody is in the kitchen.37

"Quit biting your lip like that," she tells me. "You do that all the time. You're not going to have any lips left when you get to Western. You're going to be walking around looking like you had to have a... liporectomy or something."38

I start talking like I might if I had had surgery for mouth cancer. 39

"Hey guwys, I'w Wade. I don hah no wips."40

I grin and chuckle.41

"Stop making me miss you," she says.42

I have never felt more concrete in my life.43

"Okay," she says, "I'ma go, bb." It was her nickname. When she typed it and I read it online, I always imagined that she was saying "baby".44

She left. When David left, he came to me. I looked at him for a moment and nodded.45

"It's been good," I tell him. It feels like something I would expect to say.46

We did a complex maneuver. He reached in and I we hooked fingers, then clenched our hands so we made a collective fist, then each of us put a hand on the others back and stayed there for a second. It was the closest thing to a hug since he had almost killed me with a block of wood and a bandsaw.47

He averted his eyes, looking at the door Madolyn had just left through.48

"I'm sorry, dude," he said.49

So was I. But she types hearts a lot more often these days.