The Item Sold As-Is
You found me when I was a naive 19 year-old at a house party in Miami, my heels sinking into the wet grass as you introduced yourself as the drummer for the DJ playing that night. You found me at La Guardia at 25 after a terrible divorce and then at some cow town airport in the Midwest after I just turned 26. You found me briefly in Madison at 29 as snow threatened your landing. Even when I didn’t(don’t) want to be found, you found(find) me.
Inserting yourself into my life whenever you see it threatened. Always providing a queen size bed in the basement of a brownstone in Brooklyn for me to crash into. Always picking up coconut water at the corner bodega and Thai at that place across Marcy for us to consume in the privacy of your tiny room. Your drum set taking up almost as much as space as your bed. You’d leave for a show and I’d get lost in your University of Miami t-shirt as I nuzzled my head into your familiar sheets.
And then one snowy January night just a few weeks after my divorce, you asked me to stay. You regretted that I got married to some surgery resident you’d never met. You took me to a warehouse on the outskirts of Bed-Stuy where they were only pouring straight whiskey. Our Spanish leather boots sticking to the floor, your hand around my thrift store dress, my hand in the back pocket of your worn black jeans as you held me closer and closer. Giggles, anonymity, familiarity.
And in a moment of lust you asked me to stay. To not board my flight the next day. Then you could just always protect me. You couldn’t risk losing me again.
And though my heart had already planned an entire lifetime with you in our own little brownstone in Williamsburg, my brain won and convinced me to board my flight the next day.
And five years later, you took(take) every 4AM call, and took(take) the next flight to whatever part of the country I found(find) myself in. You held(hold) me in your arms, expecting nothing in return.
And every time you book an Uber to come take you to the airport, I remember there was a time when you could have been so much more than a 4 AM emergency call.
And every time you smile one last time before the automatic airport doors close behind you, I feel myself begin to say something…But I never can. I let you go again. And I go lay in the fetal position on my empty queen bed and remember Brooklyn with you. And I get up the next morning and continue whatever life I have found myself living.
You’re the only one who never asked(asks) anything of me. Letting me let you go, yet still showing up at the sound of my voice. Because you know me. And you’ve never expected more. You love me as-is.