When B called, I'd been too distraught to really even think of what to expect. All I could focus on was how accurate his psychic timing seems to be getting, as if the dearth of words between us had begun to heighten yet another sense, similar to how blind people have acute hearing, or how the deaf can read vibrations. Or how predatory animals smell fear. Oh dear. This is not a product of brain power, but a natural consequence of bonding - even one so undesigned as ours. "What are you doing?," B demanded. I replied truthfully, "Just here, wondering what YOU'RE doing."
He was at the local pub, and I closed my eyes slowly at the thought that this was possibly an alcohol-induced confessional. Normally, B is swathed in a careful coolness, relying on less words being better than the wrong ones, or none at all when there's nothing good to say, specially when he simply can't define whatever he's feeling.
Home? Is he joking? My tears retract themselves quickly as I cobble some attempt at lucidity. I think he must mean GI Jim, a rough and tumble friend from the Midwest who after his army stint overseas preceded B in California. I'd never met GI Jim, though once upon a drunken night he'd joined B over the phone to regal me with song whilst they were in the wilds of Hollywood and a very angry cab driver was yelling colorfully in the background. It ended rather sourly though when GI Jim attempted a lewd flirt and B promptly commandeered the phone to insist that NO, no one other than HE would be doing the..uhmm.. interestingly salacious things GI Jim proposed. It was funny and ribald, and I’d thought pitifully of the hangovers which laid in wait for them in the morning.
He'd met mine last summer, somehow managing through some kind of kismet to meet all but one friend. He even met the Lovely Libran sister who lives a continent away, as well as Mommy S, an older girlfriend who'd been off on the dance circuit for months but ran into us at a restaurant just as B was entertaining me with his mouth and taco chips. She'd phoned me later to catch up and tell me that B had "kind eyes". When your intimates start using descriptors like "kind eyes" or "sweetly genuine" about the man you're falling for, it really does nothing to aid your defenses.
I, on the other hand, had only met B's work people and roommates. Never family or friends from the waving cornfields he hailed from. I'd understood why, there'd be too much to explain.
Given that history and the stark contrast of his present request with his recent holiday absence, I'm naturally bewildered. Yet B sounds far from drunk, even less so as he continues to pester me. Thankfully, only one of us is indecisive; that honor belonging to B's madly see-sawing Libran mind. "Okay, fine." I say. B practically whoops, "You're coming? Like NOW, you're coming? Really, you promise??" I roll my eyes silently, "Yeeeesssss I am, now get off the phone so I can get ready."
I can hardly finish dressing as B rings me every 10 minutes to check if I'm about to leave. I'm beginning to dread seeing GI Jim and B, possibly thoroughly pickled by the time I get there. Still, I resolutely get in the car and drive. Nothing with B is ever solved in words. The night's choices are Silence or Action, and as I zoomed down the freeway, all I could think of was:
This is either a Really Bad Idea or a Really Good One. It was time to tip the Libran scales.