I spent last night learning to roller skate. Well, learning to roller skate while also learning how to race on roller skates. Tony was always competitive, and usually racing. Bikes, skates, drugs - always rolling. Going, pushing, moving. It had been so long that the sheer shock of him - his hands, his breath, the way he opened and closed his eyes - it was all so novel that I found myself just staring, stopped, watching, breathless. As the skates controlled my destination, I drifted slowly across the floor as he flew over the cement.
I'm not sure he ever roller skated.
We loved each other right away. In a way that was never sustainable, because it filled your lungs and your heart and made you feel like it was all about to come exploding out of you, a million miles a minute. Like him. Like attracting repelling magnets. We'd never be ready, and we could never contain it.
We were always touching, so when he grabbed my hands and pulled me after him, it felt effortlessly out of control, like stepping into a self that long ago expired, and feeling immediately at home. You never wanted to confess that you were afraid, not in front of Tony. If he was doing it (which he always was, whatever it was), then you were doing it. There's no fear here, fear has no home here. Get on the stage and sing, loud - scream! Dance dirty and accept tips. Use the money for whiskey and fall in love with the bouncer who helps you down from the stage. Race home, unwilling to let the night leave you behind. Use the last $5 for a six pack, make out. Trade stories of recent conquests, always in past tense.
When I woke up this morning I could still feel his fingerprints on my wrists. Was still flushed, because it's always summer there.
I'll see you again, my friend. Next time teach me how to fly.
