Thursday, February 14, 2013

Without Valentines

I went out to dinner the night before Valentines.

The night of I stayed in and made dinner for the two men that I held dear. Chicken Parmesan with a desert of whipped cream, blueberries, and strawberries.

Afterward we sat and watched Iron Man, as my love had never seen it, and it seemed like a good idea. I had wine and codeine to help with the migraine headache; the Irish had the better part of a case of beer.

The next morning I decided to make pancakes, which required a great deal of moving about in the kitchen.

"Morning," I heard from around the corner.

I walked into the Irish's room. "How did you sleep, love?"

"I think I drank too much."

"Why is that?"

"I woke up at 3 a.m. and had to vomit."

"Yeah, that's not good. I made pancakes."

"No."

And so it went. I sat on his bed in the morning light and I poured out caring for him. I was full of caring that morning, caring for the love who was about to leave, caring for my flatmate who I loved dearly, caring for a girl I wanted to spoil, caring, and caring...

I felt so alone in my outpouring of care. There were so few people in my life, but all those that were there, I cared for fiercely. The rest were puffs on the horizon of barely there. Sometimes I was worried that the lack of people meant a sort of loss that I could not recover from.

I have never been easy to be friends with.

I miss all my friends.

"I need to brush my teeth."

"You go to that. Let me know if I can help."

"I will."

And I realized that what I wanted most of all was to be useful to someone.

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