After I kissed Scrabble Boy goodnight, I went into the bedroom and found that Sweetie hadn’t been asleep. She was laying there crying and looking traumatized. What’s worse, since the bathroom is right next to the couch, she’d felt trapped and unable to get up and go pee. I was a jerk about it, and we exchanged a few harsh words before trying to sleep for a couple of hours.
The morning was tricky and painful. I had no idea what he was thinking, and I just wanted Sweetie to somehow like me again. Aside from my inane morning chatter, there was very little talking. I passed her a note that said I was sorry, and passed him a note that said “I like you.” He finished up the robot-themed mix he’d been making me, and I made them breakfast: scrambled eggs with spinach and cheese. Scrabble Boy and I ate at the dining room table while Sweetie hid in our room.
Scrabble Boy drove us downtown to the teen poetry workshop we were helping to lead at one of the local universities. The day was so incredibly perfectly pretty-the flowering trees along the river were in full bloom and the sky was its very best cheerful self. We listened to the robot mix (Not as dreamy as the situation called for) and kissed at every stoplight. I loved holding his hand as we walked from the car to the gig. For two such hung over and twitterpated people, we did a great job with the workshop, except I was in no state to write anything coherent.
When he dropped me off afterward, I was full of worry about Sweetie and I didn’t want him to leave. We kissed and kissed and kissed. We decided that we would keep in touch via facebook Scrabble, which was the beginning of facebook Scrabble being ruined maybe forever for me.
I had another gig that night, but luckily there was time to take a nap with Sweetie first. By the next day, she started to like me again and we started to feel okay. We took a walk by the river and took in the flowering trees.
Scrabble Boy was on tour and also had to fly to Florida to attend his grandfather’s funeral. (So some of his urgency was probably grief.) We were in touch almost every day through poems and texts and Scrabble. He mentioned me in a coded way in almost every poem he posted, including this: “dear reader, I love you.” Of course, he could have meant any and all readers, but I wanted it to be me. Some of the poems were a little paranoid, mentioning “unauthorized activities” but I guess I just didn’t notice. I was writing unabashed and smutty-for-me love poems.
It took me a few weeks to write about it in a literal way, on my other blog. I wanted to acknowledge the fact that I was now sure of being bi and had experienced all these new emotions.
Are you ever watching a dumb sitcom or something where there’s a misunderstanding or something and you feel frustrated, like, why didn’t they just TALK!? That’s how I feel at every stage of this story.
As soon as I posted the post, I sent it to him, and he popped up on gchat almost immediately. He asked me to take out the paragraph mentioning his wife. She didn’t know. He used the phrase “not authorized” again. He was obviously scared and upset and I was LIVID with myself for making what seemed like such an obvious mistake. I did take the paragraph out, but unredacted it a few weeks later. It’s a really important paragraph, because it showed my first experience of compersion:
“And I had such an epiphany a little while ago when he posted a beautiful poem about his wife. I guess I thought I might be jealous, but I read it anyway. And a little latch-box opened in my heart and the sun shined out. I was/am genuinely happy that he’s in his real life, loving and loved and writing hot poems for her.”
Next time: We try to be friends…