Things I would not like to do with You when I am Drunk.
“Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream.” ~ Jack Kerouac
There is a small pine wreath in your dark hair.
I am a big man, I can handle five drinks in a row, or six, or seven. I just light up like a wax wrapper, lit on fire. I can still walk straight and dance and talk and laugh and make jokes that make others laugh. And then you come in, an hour after I’ve been there, bored, and I did not think you were coming.
You are tall and beautiful and wearing white. I do not know you, and you do not know me, but we have enjoyed one another’s company, recently, a bit—talking and laughing. You are clearly intelligent, tasteful, and apparently, you tell me now, you are young. I had no idea: your taste, conversation, ambitions and laughter are all beautiful and formed, not raw or messy or wild, but composed, like an exquisite photograph.
We talk and laugh and eat and drink and toast and talk with others and do our things. It is a party. And we talk with old people and I flirt at you and you listen to the toasts from people you do not know to others you do not know, much, which is sweet—because these are special moments for people I love.
At the end of our night I would like to walk you to your car, but I run into someone, I do not remember—and you wait a bit, which is sweet. And we walk and talk and are frank but respectful. I hate being respectful, women do not find it attractive, but I care more for my own conscience and integrity than kissing a woman when it is not time.
And I guess you are engrossed in our snowy walk and talk, for we walk ten blocks out of the way, and there is a moment, where we turn to reverse course, with the snow and the light in the night when it is time to kiss you. But I do not dive into the moment. Perhaps I should have, but I would rather make love with a beauty than chase a kiss. Making love is passion plus heart, and I would not have one without the other.
And so I would like to keep walking with you in the snow and when we say goodbye—you are driving home to your family for Christmas across the white Plains—I remind you to respect my respectfulness of you, for nice guys do always lose, and I am nice, but I do not like to lose.
Christmas is for parties, and celebrations, and family amongst strangers, and for remembering how short and sweet life is, and for being cozy, and for long drives across the white plains. And you are gone, now, and I am set for another good day of work and play: hike with my dog and a friend and her dog, hot chocolate-colored coffee, work on my laptop, hot tub, climbing at the gym, grocery shopping, bicycling between each destination, and a cozy movie and dinner.
And if we never know one another, that will be fine, for you have lit up my month, and for that I bow in thanks. But if I do know you, watch out, for I will light up your already bright life, and we may burn together, like wax paper.