Appeal Denied

2016-NYC-France-LA-London-27: Motion to Strike Portion of Document

April 12, 2016

"It's happening! This is not a drill!" screamed the gif meme that Harry sent me.

Immediately I called him, "You got it?" I asked, scarcely breathing, my excitement for him as high as a Dead Head at a show in Washington state.

"Yes!" he whispered, "But I can't talk now. We're writing a song, and I'm not supposed to tell anyone about 'the thing'."

I smirked, pleased that he considered me important enough to share this news with, especially since he wasn't even sharing it with his songwriting friends.

"Holy shit, Butterfly Boy! Holy fucking shit! Call me when you can talk," I wanted to shout his news from the top of the Empire State Building; instead I cranked up "Drag Me Down" and danced in my underwear and his Harley Davidson shirt until I was breathless.

When he called, it was close to midnight for me, but I grabbed my phone on the first ring anyway. "Tell me everything, Harry," I demanded. For the next hour we squealed together, and then we cried for 20 minutes after that, knowing that the hair was definitely going to have to go.

"Actually, Van, it's going to work out fine for that little thing I had planned with Another Man. Do you want to hear about it or be surprised?"

As I was contemplating my answer, I fell asleep, the phone dropping to my side, the battery running out during the night.

The next morning, after plugging my phone in to charge and arriving at work completely exhausted from my late night conversation, I texted him, "Why didn't you hang up? My battery finally died."

His response didn't arrive for a couple of hours. When it did, I was grateful I wasn't with a client or colleague. "Listened to you sleep, Brains. Your cuddly sounds made me drowsy too."

Not gonna lie. I cried.

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May 6, 2016

The keyboard smash I sent him was meant to convey everything I was feeling and more. He hadn't told me the date of the haircut, but he wasn't shy about posting that damn ponytail for everyone on the planet to see. My stomach had dropped to basement levels when I saw the Insta photo. During my hyperventilation phase, I texted him nothing but an 86-character keyboard smash. In all capital letters, mind you.

The reply was swift. "Are you home yet?"

"No."

"I'll FaceTime you when you are," he teased, and I rushed to finish the preparations for my client, knowing that I would have time to check it over Monday morning before the meeting.

Barely waving to Marvin on my way out to the subway, I ran to the Q line which (naturally) was running late. With a giant "arrrrggggghhhh", I paced impatiently on the platform until the train arrived.

Dialing Harry's number on the way upstairs to my apartment-- before I'd even peed -- was either a sign of my nervousness or eagerness. Or both. Somehow I had forgotten that my partner is the biggest tease on the planet, but I was reminded when he answered the FaceTime call wearing a beanie with absolutely zero hair showing.

"Take it off, Harry," I whined.

He merely grinned and politely asked, "How's your day, Brains?"

"SERIOUSLY!?" my bellow must have been heard across the ocean. "HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME, HARRY?"

"Do what, Van?" he asked, tilting his head and gazing at me quizzically as though I had misplaced my nose somewhere.

"Fuck. You're a better actor than even Nolan suspected," I growled. "You know I need to see the hair." Then more quietly, more sincerely, "I need it, Harry."