Vancouver
3 min

So obviously gay

Feeling very much like Meg Ryan

Credit: Xtra West files

Dear Diary: Morning: Am never going to drink again. Ever. And mean it. Woke up to blare of Chris’ alarm clock. He rolled out of his bed, wordless, and shuffled into the hallway. His pyjama bottoms made little wrinkle starbursts on his ass as he walked away-right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek.



This thrill was short-lived though. Now he’s gone, leaving me with my hangover.



My insides have turned into wet cardboard. My eyes make sounds when I look from left to right. The tiny mirror that Ryan glued to the ceiling over my bed shows a gothic sort of figure, sweating in the sheets.



Might be combination of hangover and scurvy, so am going to store for fruits and veggies.



***Later***



Apron Boy had his hands out on counter, elbows locked in tricep-bulging pose. Ready smile leapt up at me as bell on the door tinkled. Was like trumpets when king comes into chamber. Only was tinkly bell. And was me. Entering UBC Quick Shop.



Went for autumn-in-New-York look as I picked out the wholesomest of all the apples.



Feeling very much like Meg Ryan somehow, finished my shopping in a hurry and went to the counter, remembering to look as if am coyly remembering something fascinating that happened to me.



Is it wrong to have been excited that he handled my produce? Will not wash those apples.



Back home, did laundry so as to continue streak of healthy living, only to discover afterward that I’d left $20 and Justin’s phone number in the pocket. I now have a gooey wad of what was once money and sex sitting next to my computer screen, blended together in an ineffectual mulch. I am sure there is symbolism there somewhere but, frankly dear diary, who gives a shit?



Laundry ready. Then to English class-must wear new shirt if ever going to attract boy in front row.



***11:40 am, English 112***



Pablo Neruda-won Nobel prize 1971. Was also heavily involved in leftist politics. This translation of his poetry is a-blah blah blah. . .



What is it that makes me love him? It could be the doodles that he invents during class-drawings of sad bunnies wearing Oklahoma-style clothing. Or the way his voice crackles like a fire with puberty bubbles. His hair, perfectly imperfect. The fact that I do not yet know his name, and he has no concept of my existence.



But I think that above all these things, I love him because he is wearing sweat pants today. He walked just now into the classroom, loping, as if he were walking from his kitchen to his den; love the way his dick poked lazily out, from under the cotton; love the orange juice stain that ran in a miscellaneous fashion down one leg declaring his rushed but healthy morning.



O, Sweat Pants Boy! Why do you talk to that She-Dog everyday during class? Why do you insist on denying so nonchalantly the simple truth that you and I, we, yes, have been fated to be together? Why else would we, of all the classes, find ourselves here, together in this one? Why else would the professor be going on, class after class, about love poems? It will happen. Yes.



Like this: With a start, you’ll look up. And your face, it will turn around. And your eyes, they’ll be looking right at me. And in that instant I am the only person aren’t I? I am the only object, and you the only viewer, and the class is slanted ridiculously out of proportion, and that must be why the desks are all falling, sliding to the back of the class here.



And you fall right into me. Eyes wide and shaking. And we have hit the big shiny jackpot of all jackpots and have found each other and of course, of course, I was right!



And then we’re lying naked listening to Pink Floyd and all the doors are locked. Just you and I.



Five minutes left in class, you still have time. Do it.



Three minutes. Just turn. Just turn, and the room will slant. Do it.



But you are whispering funny things to the She-Dog and she thinks you are O, so, funny. So witty you are, that she is inspired to flick her hair and throw her head back. That is her move. That, Sweat Pant Boy, is the finite sum of all her cooing and wooing.



She should pay more attention in class and stop flirting with boys who are obviously gay.



One minute left. You know what Sweat Pant Boy? You aren’t funny.



You fucking bastard.