Aerial

The Pink Envelope

Cherry,
Honey.
Vivienne fucking Surefire.

Cherry. That was the first thing I thought when I found this red-hot heart locket buried in my sheets. That fucking headshot changed my life. It's like past me knew I would need it to complete the current puzzle. It led me to you, it led me away from you, then it led me right back to you. Thanks, past me. Thanks, past you, for keeping it directly under my nose. Pressed up against my heart, warm and alive. Cherry.

Memories fill my bucket. I drain it and it refills mechanically. Slosh, click, tip, pour, fill. Slosh. Pour.

Je suis tombé amoureux.

I am mourning you like the fucking dead.

I nabbed your headshot from your portfolio the same day you first admitted you were injured. I needed to see for myself that Rusty was a piece-of-shit liar. He never told me about your ankle and he never planned to, you know. He kept your portfolio under lock and key on purpose. He knows I would've fled the country if I'd found out one second before I finally did – I was too invested by then. My perception of you changed a lot after that. You became my responsibility. Maybe if I'd treated Indy that way from the start, she would still be alive today.

When we were thrown together, I was afraid to get close to you. I was so fucking scared of you, of myself. The only way I could let you in was by teasing you, by feeling the tingles in my fingertips when we touched but keeping the sensation to myself, by hiding your headshot in my wallet. I knew the second you saw it and then I knew I had to make it stop before it got out of control. But then I hit my head and my heart started calling the shots. And it got out of control.

And I'll never regret it. And I hope you don't, either.

You snort when you laugh. I know I don't need to tell you that, but maybe you'd like to know that it's extremely persuasive.

You stifle all of your sneezes and I think it's just because you were raised to be that polite. You stick your finger in my open mouth when I'm yawning and I think it's just because you were born to be that evocative.

There's a particular way that your hair looks in the mornings. It's not messy or dirty, but seasoned. Backbone and ease. A protagonist in a novel settling into a place of comfortable chaos. In your bed, you sleep in your underwear. A nightgown. Teeny baby little fucking shorts. Sometimes topless, always with a silk sleep mask to prevent wrinkles or some shit. But in my bed, you sleep in nothing but my underwear. You kick the sheets onto me and make me sweat, then the sheets usually end up on the floor and you end up curled into my stomach like a baby kitten seeking warmth. You told me I snore, but I still don't believe you. I haven't yet told you that you snore, but you do. Sometimes. Only in the mornings. Sunday mornings usually, crashed out on your tummy with the sun all over your legs, after a week of performances and after our dates. After a couple glasses of champagne and a couple joints and a couple orgasms. Surprise, snore baby.

Orange juice right from the carton. A swear jar that never materialized.

Kiss the back of your neck, cuddle you from behind. Strawberry honey scented hair.

We had a fight at that palm tree. We loved a lot at that palm tree. I spent a lot of time dreading our goodbyes at that palm tree. I spent a lot of time waiting for you to show up at that palm tree. I spent a lot of time kissing you against that palm tree. I spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you against that palm tree.

You always seem to know when my back itches. Your nails are like sorcerers.

Some things I've seen you get emotional about:
-Burnt toast
-Toast that isn't burnt enough
-How small a lizard's eyes were
-An episode of "I Dream of Jeannie" where she started to vanish because she was sad that she didn't know when her birthday was
-Spilling hot chocolate on your skirt
-Sunflower petals that were singed by the flame of your candle
-The song "Cloudy" by Simon & Garfunkel
-A miniature tea set
-Beau eating a spider
-An ambulance siren
-Charlotte biting the big one at the end of Charlotte's Web
-The last bite of cantaloupe falling off your fork
-Cigarette ash on your lounge carpet
-An Ipana commercial on the radio because the song always gets stuck in your head
-Dropping and shattering a bottle of your favorite perfume
-Wet sand in the pages of your book
-The stress of sewing tiny, loose beads on your costume ten minutes to curtain
-Me, anything involving me