i've been thinking a lot and i realize that the reason why i always look back on J. with the most unique, wrenching gratitude and nostalgia and even a bit of yearning is because he was the only person who ever pursued me at my lowest point. the others started liking me before then--and they often stuck with me during the bad times--but J. was the only one who actually went after me in the thick of it. it's almost as if the melancholy drew him to me. the first time i ever watched Fight Club was with him at my bedside, and i didn't even mind that when he ate some of my salad, he chomped the lettuce so loudly.
once we walked through the night olives, the glow from the path lamps revealed our breaths. his nose was runny from the cold, and i saw the way it glistened--the transparent wateryness at his nostril and i wanted to reach over to dab at it gently with my gloved hand, the way i might have with little daniel: naturally, with a tenderness so absolute. a gesture that was genuine because it was automatic, without thought, only instinct.
i wondered if he was the one i could feel safe with. and then i realized that i had been vulnerable all along. openly so, and so easily--because he made it easy to be myself, to be honest about the hurt, that it was there and perhaps to stay.
