February 9

2/9

Yesterday morning my usual lethargy was gone. My whole body vibrated with a strange energy. I felt like a dead frog electrified to twitch on a lab table.

I couldn't read, couldn't study, couldn't work. I skipped class and went to the computer lab and opened up a word processor document. “I am an idiot,” I typed, and then I couldn't stop. 

Words flowed out of me so incessantly and forcefully I couldn't control my hands on the keyboard. In less than an hour I had written a 3000 word short story. Then I read it over. It needed editing, but it really wasn't bad – easily one of best things I've written since I started college (although that isn't much). That happened to be just about the word limit for the literary club's new magazine, so I submitted it. This was Christopher's fault, I knew, and it felt amazing. I had to let him know.

“Tell me some more stories,” I texted, “you've been giving me some great material.”

“I don't really want to be used just for stories,” he replied.

“Relationships involve people using each other, right? I can't use your body, so let me use your mind.”

“You can absolutely use my body!”

I didn't know what to say to that, so I replied, “Flattering, but you've got the wrong parts for me.” Since last night's talk, he knew my history with women.

Then I went back to my room and tried to read my English assignments some more. I failed some more. I tried and tried until it was two in the morning and I felt like I was going to die and I texted him, “I won't be able to sleep until I figure out what's going on here. Please call.” Almost immediately, he did.

Even after all this my walls stayed up. I couldn't avoid the first fifteen minutes of small talk. Finally he asked me, “What is it you want to figure out?”

I took a breath. I let go of the breath. “I just want to know why you're talking to me. What are you getting out of these long conversations? I know what I'm getting, but what are you?”

“I just like talking to you,” he said. “I appreciate your intellect. I don't have anyone I can talk to like this right now. I used to, in college, and I miss it.” His “like”s stuck in his throat in a Southern way. “Is that all you want to know?”

I was satisfied with his answer. It was logical and tidy. “Yes,” I said. “I just wanted to know the context of these conversations.”

“Context?”

“Context, background, intent. I thought you might have wanted to lead me along like you led along all those other people,” I said. “I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that that was possible.”

“Well, at first I was … definitely attracted to you. I am still attracted to you. But you don't really like my kind -” he laughed.

“I am attracted to you,” I interrupted. “You are the most attractive person I've ever met, male or female.”

He was quiet for a moment. “It's complicated now, because I'm going away.”

“Yeah, our paths crossed at the wrong time. But me – I mean, I'm probably in love with you right now. I don't really know what love is, but if it involves thinking about a person all the time, seeing him everywhere, then I'm in love with you. Ever since that first night, you've been in all my dreams, just standing there. You're always on my mind.”

“Oh, I -” His voice was thick, more Southern than usual. “I think about you a lot, too. I love – I love talking to you, looking at you. I just wish I could make this perfect. I wish I could be physically close to you.”

“In a way, I like being so far from you because it means I can have your soul and your mind without dealing with your body.”

“No, I don't mean sex. In this relationship, I don't want sex right away – I can wait however long for that. I just – I just want to hug you.”

I laughed. “You've hugged me twice already. Hug is such an ugly word.”

“Embrace you then, hold you -”

“Hold, yes. I want to hold you. And I want to be held by you. I want that so much.”

I poured out compliments to him, to his body, his mind, his soul – way too many for Marie Claire, I knew, but I was drunk on sleep and him.

“You are – beautiful,” he said. “And I never told you this, but I love the way you dress. And your body, your waist -”

“You've never seen my body. And you can't see it on the screen, just my shoulders.”

“I saw you in real life,” he said. “I looked at your body. Is that creepy?”

“No. I looked at yours.”

“What should I do,” he said, “How can I make this perfect? I've got to leave, unless – I can always visit you at school.”

Again I was kicked in the stomach by the reality of my body. 

“Oh,” I said, “I couldn't make you do that, that would be too much for me right now -”

“But I want to. You wouldn't be making me do anything.”

“My emotions are running too high for that. I don't know what I'd do.”

“Isn't that perfect, then?”

I changed the subject. “I hope you don't forget about me in 

Colorado.”

“I won't forget you. How can I forget you? This relationship is different, this is forev-”

“But don't stop dating people or anything like that.”

“I don't think I'll be able to date anyone.”

“Why? It wouldn't be fair of me to make you do that, when I can't do anything for you.”

“You can't control what I do. It's just me. I'm stuck on you.” His accent was full strength and twanging like a banjo. “But I don't want to be selfish,” he continued. “I don't want to stop you from having experiences, meeting people -”

“I can't do those things anymore,” I said. “Whenever I'm with 

anyone all I can think about is how much I'd rather be with you.”

And on and on, for hours. I don't think I even got any of this in the right order. Finally I said I'd better hang up – the sky was starting to hint at dawn.

“Sweet dreams,” he said.

And they were sweeter than I ever thought I could have.