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Unread Sep 23rd, 2007, 02:01 AM   #1 (permalink)
TampaDave
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Default Yeah i just wait till i'm sufficiently

...toasted and then make up stories. Here's something that's needed to be told for some time now. I guess.

These were the days when I read "outside porn." I've read sex porn when I longed for sex and the other day when I noticed the leaves were turning I threw a warren miller dvd in and watched ski porn. Back then I read stories about people doing things outside. I remember one day looking out the window, I think it might have been in the fall. The sun was going down and the shadows were long and the world was golden. I saw a girl jogging down the sidewalk. That was on the other side of the glass. In time I noticed it was dark outside and then the glass reflected nothing.

I liked cold things then. I wore paper booties over bare feet so I could feel the cold floor. The best cold thing was the tile on the bathroom wall. It felt cool on my forehead when I took a leak. Once I fell asleep standing there, head leaning against the wall. It made my head hurt.

Day slips by as a dream. Night world goes on forever. I believe it is still out there. We disregard it but it is still there. There are people who live in nightworld. There are transients as well. I don't know which one she is, really. She doesn't see herself as a nightworld person but I'm not so sure. I heard from her once many years after the fact and I think now she is wondering the same thing.

I remember they wore green scrubs. Green was not her color. I've seen her in white and that was good. If I had known, and she had known, I would have liked to have seen her in black. That would have been... fabulous. Nowadays she would be classified instantly; back then all we knew was that she was beautiful and unusual looking: the dark hair, the fair skin, the crystalline blue eyes. Cryst-o-mint eyes. Perfect white teeth that could cut diamonds. She was tall, taller than any of my friends. She said she was six feet and I'm pretty sure she was lying. Put a sword in her hand and she could be on the cover of any RPG box. But she worked with children, and weilded an IV in her hand, a tiny one. I loved watching her long fingers which were so graceful with those tiny bodies. She had that quality pediatric nurses have: stultifying patience, a laconic calmness that is almost catatonic. She didn't get excited about anything. Anything. This is how sick I am. I fell for her one night at 2am when she called me, her voice just dripping disdain, when she asked if I would please come look at this baby who is seizing is ass off and those pediatricians are clearly trying to kill him. I ****ING HATE nightworld but thought that was funny and we were sitting in CT together, that tiny boy wrapped up like a mummy going through the scanner, the talcum-and-electricity smell in the freezing control room, that gorgeous creature with those retarded nurse shoes on, and I wanted her so badly. That little bastard seized for three months, stopped one day after I gave him pyridoxine. That probably wasn't it, he was probably just done. We swung by once toward the end, on the way home from the Florida-Georgia game to visit him. He was this stocky little fireplug, a little gimpy on one side but sassy and busy and full of life. Amazing. In some respects, it was like we had accomplished something.

Nightworld is romantic because it is full of death. I remember lying with her on the beach in Jacksonville in the spring, the sand was cool and there were a million stars and the wind was whipping down the beach and we heard music. That was back when MTV was the coolest thing in the world, and Michael Jackson gave chills, and I remember her wet mouth and the warmth between our bodies and how the humid wind was freezing all around us.

I think sunlight sapped the strength from her but she persisted in her folly and eventually she got what she wanted. She emailed me a picture of her, and her handsome surgeon husband and what can only be described as a litter of children photographed on the lawn of some Type A southern home with magnolias in the front lawn. Not all that expensive up there in Tennessee, she was careful to point out. No doubt. Amazing what your real estate dollar will buy up there. But I saw that steely glow in her eyes, and she admitted she wasn't sleeping well. And through a funny circumstance we wound up back in that college town on the same night one humid summer night years after the fact. It was late at night and she kept texting me. We even set a time and place but somehow I didn't make it there on time. It was thrilling to know that she needed to feed. In the scheme of things, going back to the Holiday Inn to hang with those earnest, dorky, beautiful MBA students was the right thing to do. But there was something about the whole thing. The evil magic must have been there all along. Should I have just collared her up? Snapped on a leash? What then?

Hm. I hated that town. And loved it. And hated it. The CT was fine and when we left the sun was up. She lived in an apartment down on Archer Road, probably a thousand obnoxious college kids lived there. She changed into white satin but she still smelled of latex gloves and betadine. It was the time of year when, in the afternoons, the storms would roll through, and afterwards it would go from humid to very humid, but a cool wind would blow, and I remember the wind coming in her bedroom window, and us lying there on damp sheets, Michael Jackson playing on the radio. Back then, that strange light in the sky meant nightworld was coming. Neither one of us slept worth a damn. I still don't, and I suppose she doesn't either.
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