She made it back over last night.

She took the bus since she hurt her arm and her truck has a manual transmission. Living in Chicago has taken away any fears of public transportation she may have harbored in youth. I left work for home at 9, since my schedule changed, and caught the Pecos bus to Flamingo since I couldn’t find a ride. I had about a 20 minute layover so I walked into Lee’s for some wine for my young lady friend (and myself.) I knew I had beer in the refrigerator but there’s something about wine and women. The bus I wait on never arrives; instead I catch the next one a half hour later. The driver explained that someone had a stroke and the bus had to wait for an ambulance and all the bureaucratic nonsense that goes along with an incident on the bus.

My company wasn’t expected until 11ish so I wasn’t worried, merely inconvenienced. The two bottles of wine became heavy cradled in my arm. I felt French for some reason. With my beret, black satchel, long coat, and bottles of wine I was only missing a baguette and some brie to complete the ensemble. I had enough time to change and drink a beer or two before she arrived, stunning in her black coat and eyeliner. I felt dumpy in my dirty jeans and Ween t-shirt; unshaven and unkempt next to her dance club pallor. “But I’m a punk, damn it!” I try to lie to myself; DIY and shit. I don’t think she minds my appearance, however. Even as she keeps powdering her face. I offer up a beer or some wine. She opts for the beer first, pouring a Newcastle into a Budweiser logo-emblazoned pint glass that I got at Sanctuary years ago. She makes some snide comment about the logo; I’ve heard that too many times to be that amused. I know Budweiser is shit. She sits on the couch; I sit on the floor near her feet. She gives me a CD and a patch for St. Valentine’s Day, explaining that she forgot the card she made. Slightly embarrassed, I play the CD. She knows the band, she says. They’re from Chicago. It’s some neo-folk sample-driven stuff. Moving to the merlot I brought, we change out CDs. She says I’m being quite tolerant of “her music” which makes me laugh. She assumed I only listen to synthpop and other, lighter stuff. It must be the REM and Morrissey posters. Of course I listen to power noise, neo-folk, and the rest. Some people in the audience might think I’m close-minded about music but I actually listen to a broad spectrum of stuff; just not most mainstream shit. We finish the wine and play a little on the floor, hoping my roommate doesn’t interrupt. She becomes quite drunk and asks that we go to Cheers and get some food from Roberto’s. Ian comes in at this moment and exits to his room, slamming his door. That sort of aggression makes me very testy but I leave it alone. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” We leave, catching my friend James just as he’s walking up to my door. We turn around and head to the bar, but my companion becomes drunker. Instead of eating in the bar, I bring her into the restaurant to eat first. She’s stumbling a bit. Of all things, she orders a carne asada burrito. I put some Spanish music on the jukebox to liven things up. She sobers up enough for us to leave for the bar. We only stay for one beer; it’s getting late and we’re both intoxicated.

Getting home, we go right for my bedroom. The last time she was here, she spent three nights. She slept on the couch the first night but the other two in my room. I didn’t know what to expect, but I guess I should know better. “Two total strangers, but that ain’t what they’re thinking.” After being sexually active for 17 years, I’m still surprised at how different everyone is in intimate situations. What you want, where you want it, and for how long is always completely different for everyone.

Needing to work the next day, I fell asleep quickly and still nude. By the time I woke, she’d put on her pajamas. I cuddled softly for a few moments before getting ready for work. She might be visiting San Diego on Thursday, but I hope she sticks around.