March 18, 2012


The Continuing Adventures of Eco Boy vs. Yoga Girl.

Autobiographical Fiction.


“A thousand days and a thousand, thousand going-through-the-motions, and one day it all changes and the wide-eyed lover wonders how the world had ever seemed so black and white.”
~ Dr. Willard Evans


Calm before the Storm.

Sweet Dreams, together.

Some girls he couldn’t sleep with.

He was all about quality sleep—hated getting woken up in the middle of the night.

Some girls, however, he could spoon with, relaxed, and not wake up ’til morning.

It had very little to do with the quality of the girl or the quality of the relationship. He couldn’t figure what made the difference, so didn’t try.

With Yoga Girl, Eco Boy slept like a dream. She was long and smooth and golden. She’d turned away from him, and after he’d returned from the bathroom he’d come to his bed to see that she was far off, on her side of the bed. He liked that.

And he looked at the stars and a bright bit of moon out the night window, sat down Indian-style on his side of the bed and meditated, in his briefs, sitting up, for a moment, and when his thoughts had settled back into the present moment he dedicated his day to the good of others, and bowed to himself.

And he laid back. And because she was so far off, unobtrusive and unneedy he rolled over to her and spooned her, holding her, strong, much larger than she, and in her already-halfway dreamland she smiled, and nudged backward into his protective warmth, and they slept dark dreams in gray sheets.


Rise & Shine Stage Directions.

And 7.5 hours later she awoke, blinking now into the sunshine that fell directly, white, through her eyes. Sunshine ain’t shy.

And she elbowed him, softly, until he muttered humph and fluttered his eyes. She turned back and kissed him on the nose. His brown hair sticking straight up.

And they walked to the bathroom and he doused his morningfog in cold water, then grabbed his toothbrush & put toothpaste on it, and he left. She did her bathroom things while he let his dog out for a little walk. He walked gingerly on alley gravel, and brushed his teeth. And his dog peed and finally pooed and he Sunday-NY-Times’-blue-plastic-bagged the poo and tossed it. And he came back upstairs and did some jumping jacks and half-assed yoga on the back balcony.

And they dressed a bit and hopped on his bike and rolled to her house, downtown. And while she cleaned up and changed, he biked back up to his house, pleased and content with himself. And he showered and grabbed his dog, and they met for brunch.


Pregnant Pause.

Biking there, with his dog loping beside him, he wondered what he would talk about. They hadn’t talked, much. They’d sort of hurried past the nervousness, and made witty jokes, and tested one another out, but they hadn’t just relaxed, as friends do.

They had done do and gone go and moved move and loved love and slept sleep, but they hadn’t just been be. So he was half-nervous about that, and half confident that the world would conspire to distract himself from that nervousness.

“Anh, I’ll probably be fine, it’ll just happen.”

He felt as if a rainstorm were coming on; a drought was about to end.


Yoga Girl, on the other hand, was happy.

Finally, she had something to do, someone to talk with, some1 2 txt with, someone to eat with, someone to be seen with.

She stood and pedaled her Glamour-approved 80s bike—her blue polka dots hipster dress (also Glamour-approved—her March issue had done a spread on how to be a foodie “Etsy Girl”), the short dress waving gaily over her smooth legs, her shiny vintage purse leaning left then right in her bike basket, her still-wet blond hair swinging up and left, and down and right—as she huffed and puffed up the long, slow, sunny hill.

She did have a strange feeling, though; like she’d left her proverbial oven on, not that she cooked. It wasn’t a bad feeling, it was an out-of-place feeling. It was a sort of excitement. She was happy to see this boy—not just out of boredom, as before, but out of a sort of almost-embarrassing longing.

She felt as if something cinnamony was rising in the oven, and her whole life was beginning to smell like what the movies call “true love.”


Little did these two beautiful idiots know, but they were both about to get totally fucked by love.

Images: Am Appy.

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