It was three a.m., the witching hour.
I drove over a foggy mountaintop. The Brothers Bright crooned from my radio, and the lights of my Impala cut a lonely swath through the darkness. I passed no one; the streets were empty with nighttime.
I had to wake up for church the next morning, meaning I would only get maybe three hours of sleep. I considered coffee and energy drinks and wondered when I would get to see him again.
“Started with a little bit,
Now I don’t know how to quit.”
My skin tingled where he touched me. Our fingers, arms, feet–I felt sparks unlike anything I’d ever experienced before, sending shocks up my arms until my hair stood up straight. Lightning struck in my gut when he got too close.
We talked so long, until I knew it was implausible for me to stay much longer. Time ticked by–too fast. Wasn’t it just ten o’ clock? I swore I looked at the readout mere moments ago, but now it was one thirty in the morning, and I must go, I must go.
“And now I’m all twisted;
When it’s all gone, I miss it.”
A final smoke, green cigarillos, watching the stars. I said I should leave. He seemed sad, if you think so. Inside, he asked–shyly? Uncertainly?–if I wanted to stay a bit longer and talk about music. My heart ached. I said yes.
The clock marched on. I ignored it as we shared weird composers and fringe music–Coco Rosie, Xenakis, Cryo Chamber, Caravan Palace. I found a favorite video of mine, two violinists acting out how it feels to play thirteen different great composers. He laughed so loud, so deep, I felt it in my bones. His roommate went to bed. We leaned closer together.
“I wonder how I got by this week–
I only touched you once.”
I didn’t realize until I was already halfway home, rubbing sleep from my eyes, the clock in my car projecting the lateness of the hour back at me. Shit, my glasses. They were still on the table in his kitchen. I texted him when I got home, asking if I could come by the next day after church to pick them up. He said yes and my stomach flopped.
So I went.
In the mid-afternoon, him texting me that he just woke. I’m jelly, I texted back. My chest tightened the closer I got. By the time I made it to his apartment, I felt supercharged with electricity, wired until I feared I would explode.
“And now I need you to feel the vibe.
I need you to see the point.“
He opened the door. I felt that same rush as he invited me in, and I immediately went to grab my glasses, nestling them in their protective case as I talked about how I only realized I’d left them halfway home the night before. He laughed–a slow, sleepy rumble. Everything in me melted.
Want to sit down?
He made coffee, and we talked. Hours passed. I was hungry, but I ignored it. We played video games, talking about characters and specs until he had to leave for work. When are you off this week? — Let me check.
I want to see you again.
“I need you to feel alive.
I need you to fill the void.”
–“Void”, The Neighbourhood