It was a late night, we’ve had a couple of drinks, and the record player hadn’t stopped playing since we got back to your place. We were both glued to the couch, content with listening to the soft croons of Ella Fitzgerald, while the TV played on mute. You sat there with Hemingway’s, A Farewell To Arms in your hand and my head on your lap. I still remember how I thought, self-consciously, that my head might weigh too much on your warm lap and I also pondered how many more times you can read Hemingway’s awfully terse words before you’d get sick of it. You caught me looking up at you in the midst of my thoughts, and jokingly said you’d read to me, knowing my disdain for Hemingway. The joke became a whole chapter of you narrating Henry’s story to me. You put on your best, gruff voice for Henry and the silliest pitch would come out of your throat when it came to Catherine’s parts. You told me you weren’t reading it in their voices this time, but the voices that you’d imagine Hemingway used when he wrote the book. All of that seemed so silly to me back then, and I didn’t really take in that moment for what it was worth. I threw it away like a half eaten candy bar, not realizing how sweet and savory of a moment we had shared until I was hungry for your affection.
I don’t feel like doing much tonight. I don’t want to see anyone or talk anymore. I did a lot of that today. I just want to eat my veggie chips, drink a 40, and write alone. Stop trying to get a hold of me, I will keep squirming and burrowing my head deeper into this hole.