Switzerland Invades Liechtenstein.
If you stare at a dead channel long enough, you begin to see pictures. It’s like picking out mythology in static. Imagine a line, a straight line, and you’ll see it. Imagine a letter, an initial, a simple symbol, and it will appear. Pattern recognition, linked to our ability to recognize faces in clouds, but the image will keep moving, you’ll follow the line back and forth around the screen. Letters will slowly rotate. This is a trick I learned in hotel rooms. If you’re dedicated, it will also work with scrambled pornography.
Jon was the kind of tall that has to slouch to smile. I’ve written about him before. Thick plaid shirts and dark black jeans, he would whistle like a bird, a beer can in his hand and a mischievous smile for the confused cat, Merin, that came with the house. He would look up and catch me dishevelled, new to morning, watching shyly from the bedroom door, all of nineteen, and I could see how much he wanted to quietly reach out to pull back my robe and push me back against the wall. Soft-spoken, he used to scare me, but I never felt it as anything but a sacrament. Every conversation we carried was a dare. He would lick my heart with illicit games, see how far I would be willing to shed my skin.
I only wish I’d said yes a little earlier. I should have been brave. I’m even sorry I wasn’t the one to find him. I miss the kiss of his hands, his insane intelligence, the strength he offered me that I was too nervous to take. No one else could catch him looking anything but nervous, but he was a beautiful man. With him I could look past the static to pick out stars, supernovae, all the gentle secrets of the big bang. It’s been a few years, but I will never know all I lost. The categories are too vast, the themes too closely kept.
Mortality. Love. Just do something.
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