gets cold, then he pulls it up on to his chest and his feet get cold, and so he never succeeds in falling properly asleep. [...] The feeling of boredom originates for me in a sense of the absurdity of a reality which is insufficient, or anyhow unable, to convince me of its own effective existence."*I. We're sitting at the bar, made of antique dark wood and accented with brass and a doting bartender in white. I probably don't belong here. I'm not sure where I belong exactly, but even dressed up with leather boots and lace, still probably not here. Kaysie and I came to Marks to eat steak, or Kaysie came to watch me eat steak. We sip dirty martinis in chilled glasses, we make plans for the night that will go mostly unfulfilled. I order the filet kabobs because it's happy hour and they're only five dollars (just trying to point out that I'm not a complete asshole, not yet) and Kaysie makes some sort of noise that implies excitement or approval or amusement. I haven't eaten meat in ten years, and then I woke up and called my very best meat eating friend and said, "today."
On my second martini the little meat pieces come out and I pull them off the wood skewers with the silver fork. I can't think of any reason not to indulge myself in this. I eat thoughtfully. The last time I ate meat was with my dad. The taste brings back the smell of restaurants a decade ago, of meals and afternoons happily spent. Salty and good, but not quite enough. Like kissing someone you've had a crush on forever only to discover he's terribly clumsy and awkward. We put our glasses down and shrug our shoulders, tip twenty percent and go to the party. There's always something else to do, even if we have to create it for ourselves.
II. I'm at the bar cleaning up. It's two in the morning and everyone's gone except other people who work there. I have a lot to do, and I won't get home until three, and by then no one will be awake. I'll read one of the books piled up next to my bed. Books about dictators, about falling in love, about wolves, or just poetry. Each one either a familiar comfort or a slap in the face, each one an escape. Sometimes the nights are full of fun and flirting. People in a good mood, actually enjoying each others company or pretending really well. Tonight I had some bad conversations. Like everyone decided to fall apart at the same time. Everyone's unhappy. Like Garland Briggs in Twin Peaks who confesses under oath "the possibility that love is not enough" we've all hit a wall. Sometimes you have those mornings when you wake up and you're convinced all your friends hate you, and the only thing you have in common are the clothes on your back and the records on your shelves. I can hold your hand and say it's not true, pour you a shot and tell you tomorrow's another day, but who will hold my hand when I go home? Who will make me swear an oath to all my great fears?
Ryan walks up and we start talking over beers, just about work while I sweep up cigarettes and straws. Then the conversations breaks, we start talking about lost loves, every cliche in the book, but things that we need to talk about at three in the morning sometimes. A weird feeling sets in and I realize I'm feeling better. Not that anything was wrong, I wasn't exactly sad, but talking with Ryan I feel more like myself. Reassessed and reassured, like organizing the shelves in my brain and putting the best of the clutter in the front. I think I rode my bike home just happy to have a real friend, one that can still make me feel better, that can cut through the veil of loneliness and make me open my eyes a little wider at the world.
III. I've been considering what it means to be friends with someone. I talk to a lot of people, I like a lot of people, at least casually. Still, it's a little shocking to discover I actually like most of the people I'm friends with. It's easy to forget why sometimes. Anyone could be friends with such attractive, charming people. Having common interests pales in comparison to being able to have a good conversation. Being able to be quiet together, also, like how me and Adrien can be together and just stare at a wall. We need others to share the trouble, or even just the boredom with us. I consider the possibility that it is enough for me.
*Boredom, Alberto Moravia
