2007-03-05
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I always liked the way he put his large hand on my head, making friction with my scalp fondly. And I always knew that although it was a gesture of connection, of comeraderie, his eyes would flicker into the faraway for a moment, reminding me of the Something Else that was in him. I never returned this gesture of his - never responded. It was during times like this I could never quite decide which end of the Male Gaze I was on: subject, or viewer?
His bedroom voice was always accompanied by the comforter that was his hand - protectively on the small of my back, chummily on the curve of my shoulders, or carelessly, sometimes across my chest. I never knew how to react to moments like those; to ruin it with a reminder of propriety which would do nothing but bring the less-than-innocent into mind, or to let it be, finding the knowledge somewhere that he meant no harm. I always chose the latter, but only because the moment's hesitation I took negated the former as a viable option - viable being that which allowed the least awkwardness.
He was always caring - always knowing exactly which moment the warrior in me wanted to break down into the arms of some other hero but would never admit it, when I was dying for a kind word but couldn't bring myself to ask for one. Three times we hugged - the first was spontaneous, the second I asked, the third he gave. Even in these moments we shared, we struck even. Moments like these were easy - no words were wasted, no excessive feelings surfeited.
I never thought to ask if I was special to him.
I always liked him, but I never knew how I liked him. It seemed I liked him like a brother, like a buddy, like a subject, like a hero. It kills me to think that if he had made an obvious move, it might have been guided towards the romantic. Might. Perhaps. What does this mean?
I'm writing this because I want to know if friendship is always so easily made ambiguous by the remembering heart. If the power of words lie in suggestion, or revealing truth. And if he should chance upon this, to remember me.
nothing ever happens at 2:31 p.m.