aka the Moderation Of Melancholy (Part I)

"Subject - Mr. Thomas Asked You Give Him A Call"

 

"Dear Noel," her e-mail read. 

 

"Yea the meaning of my name is pretty rad not gona lie. But equally, if not more, is the radness of the explanation you gave of yours. I googled the meaning and it gave a horoscope-like description of the numerological path the individual with this name should take. To sum, you are an outside-the-box kind of person -- creative and original. You are also strong-willed with the opinions to match. So on point!  You are dangerous- because working here has not felt like a job. I look forward to everything every day- Namely, you."

 

Oh Annie. I can't stand the doors and hours that stand between us. When the day begins or evening ends and I have the slightest moment of rest, my mind immediately retreats from respite, from friends, from family and even May, from anything that isn't you. So much that I can't lay comfortably in my lonely or play the master to my thoughts and solitude. Moments I held hopelessly content in hushed macabre, quietly reflecting on the endless labyrinths of my feelings, where the violence of my veins scream silently in ethanol and empty stars. These intimate self-indulgences, once secret and solely my own, are yours now. Though they sit with me in my bedroom, staring out the window with a half finished feeling/glass of wine, when the Spotify shifts to a quiet transition between Peyroux and Rudy Perez, I hear them softly whine your name. 

 

And this is what time has become, not hours or minutes of the day, but an impatient countdown and staring contest with a clock, desperate for the instant I get to enjoy her once again.

 

I'll never have a cigarette before noon or call someone after midnight. Not because of setting boundaries or distance- because I've been to bed with monsters and will never be again. Luckily I'm old enough to know when the mold is being broken, and I’ve read enough horoscope signs to realize the pitfalls of every constellation. Annie is an Aries: driven, rigorous and magnetic her charge and charm. Determined, but impulsively undisciplined- the kind of person to leave a project or love half finished. My sun hailed Taurus, the bull, stubborn in his ways and thoughts, but practical. Some would even say to a fault. Realistically unremitting because every beginning is such a hard and long battle, he’s the kind of person that won’t leave until there’s a definite ending. 

 

So say we wall. 

 

I got drunk one night and did a compatibility search right after I learned her birthday. A quiet moment of mercy for the fiending fantasies that were plaguing me. One last surrender to the reigns I knew had to be relinquished. One final What-If before I halted habit and stopped a travesty, in the interest of wellness, of course, but more  in concern for ceremony. Annie was beginning to bewilder me in ways that could only end in four letter words neither one of us could afford- her with a husband and one year old boy, me with a starry eyed girl.  The real signs were more internal than astrological illusions; inner tramp stamps on the lower back of my soul that reminded me of how important keeping work at work is. Regrets carefully filed under Red-Flag-Don't-Let-That-Shit-Happen-Ever-Again. 

 

Sentiments to be nipped in the bud before they could ever blossom because, you can't miss a life you'll never lead. The grass may be greener on the other side but I’m forgetful whatever it’s called and something about muscle memory. 

 

"Subject - Re: Mr. Thomas Asked You Give Him A Call"

 

"Dear Annie," 

 

"I've grown used to the in-abuse and trials of a footnote. That's a line I wrote around three years ago about somebody else. But I like it, and while the context and even meaning of it has shifted between the bars, the gist of it still rings the same. Only, a footnote does not denote feeling- it’s the further explaining of something. That renders the metaphor pretty useless. Which I’m aware of, and yet I still deeply believe in it. I'm functionally out of my mind that way, to tell you the truth. Absolutely crazy. I don't even believe in horoscopes but I'm always checking mine.  The other day I saw a homeless guy yelling at pigeons and I got incredibly and oddly jealous. Because in my head I think the man yelling at pigeons isn't actually yelling at them, he's yelling at something else. The pigeons are there, sure, but they’re just a conduit. Maybe whatever he’s really so angry about is the same thing I’m so angry about? And when I get mad  about you getting mad  about me getting mad about that cunt Valeria always jamming the copier, maybe it’s the exact same thing? We’re both yelling at pigeons, but only one of us has the nerve to do it outside.

 

“I get strange strings of thoughts like that all the time, and being this bizarre often makes me a target for bored-with-their-lives type of people. Nobody calls me after work on a Friday to get a beer, but if they're bored at home when happy hours closed I’ll definitely get a text that ‘just wanna check in and see wassup.’  Just because I'll have something to distract them from their uninteresting friends or bad marriage with a story about horoscopes and homeless guys. But I'm kind of really tired of that part, Annie. I've got more important things to do than be the buffer for someone else's crappy life. I’m used to the inabuse and trials of a footnote, so maybe it’s about time I start behaving like an exclamation mark. Maybe it’s time I get so loud that I can’t be hushed or kept a secret. 

 

And besides, the squirrels outside my apartment have been fucking asking for it, so today I might just give them a piece of my mind."

 

I'll never have a cigarette before noon or call someone after midnight. Not because of setting boundaries or distance- because I've been to bed with monsters and will never be again.

 

"PS - I called Mr. Thomas and am leaving early, make sure you lock up the front desk."

 

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