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Michael’s ears rang as the orgasm rolled over his body, shivers tickling his shoulders as he fell onto the bed.
Beside him he heard the breathless gasps of the guy he had lazily swiped right on. He was fit, with wheat colored hair and bright green eyes. A messy beard clung to his jaw, and a pleasing british accent had just finished gasping his name.
Michael was comfortably warm as he tossed the condom in the trash.
The heavy slink of awkwardness crept into the air. A few moments of doubt. A question hung heavy and withered away.
The man reached for his phone, tapped out a code, 0523. A random set of numbers to Michael but that meant something to the man.
Michael didn't consider himself a particularly introspective person, he was an engineering major, words didn't come as easy as the numbers. Numbers constantly rolled through his brain like a conveyor belt. How long it had been since he had been home. The hours ticking past in a constant march. How every minute was one further away since her cigarette breath was on his lips.
The man, Gavin, long limbs splayed across the bed, pulled the blanket over his chest. Michael hadn't thought far enough ahead to plan for the after sex part of the night.
Nothing to say yet, no hand longing to be held.
Michael picked up the packed bowl, lit it, inhaled.
Gavin reached for it as it was held out to him, taking a long puff and coughing.
Michael couldn't help but laugh, no familiarity in Gavins cough, not like Jeremy who he had heard cough over that bowl more times than he could count.
Gavin rolled his eyes and took another hit, pretending to breath easier than he felt. Michael knew the feeling.
You can always tell.
Like your lungs forgetting they work, your entire chest like fire, when sometimes you’re so high the room won’t settle and your brain works a thousand miles a minuet.
"You got any siblings?" Michael asked, the silence too heavy to hold any longer.
It wasn't awkward necessarily, just heavy, a silence too unwieldy to balance.
"No, you?" Gavin asked, handing the burnt bowl back to Michael.
"3 brothers," Michael replied, setting the bowl back onto the nightstand
"What do they do?"
"Electrician, plumber, security guard,"
"You from around here?"
"Jersey,"
"My friend is from New York City,"
"What's he do,"
"He was delivering pizzas, we don't talk anymore"
"Oh."
The tinder messages had been short, civil and horny.
The snapchat messages shorter, more civil, and more horny.
That's the point of tinder anyway.
Michael packed another bowl, the burnt bud tossed in the trash can conveniently by his bed.
Lather rinse repeat.
A few more bowls.
A bottle of water.
Midnight
Tomorrow is friday, no classes for Michel
"You got class tomorrow?"
"Yes, at 10"
"What class?"
"Gothic lit."
"With Burns?"
"Sorola."
"Damn, Burns is better."
"I know, Sorola fit my schedule better."
The beginning is awkward, the middle is too, and the end is not.
The beginning is the worst, not knowing what to do, the netflix show on and quickly forgotten about playing in the background.
But once it's begun, awkwardness dissipates, addled brain only thinks of the sex.
And the middle is now and now is the middle, netflix idle and the high settling into your pores.
Gavin pulled a dab pen out of his bag, offered it to Michael. Weed, an offering of friendship, cheap air freshener and expensive wax make a familiar aroma to any college student. Fake lavender, fluorescent purple in the candle, wicks stubby and uneven burn.
Michael was transported to his first smoking experience, the porch filled with strangers, the hands helping him light the bong, the sickly smell, that first cough that was more painful to a first time smoker than the movies let on.
Michael stood and pulled a shirt on.
"I saw your tattoo, do you like Zelda?"
"Love zelda," Michale replied
"Have you played Breath of the Wild yet?"
"Obviously."
"Did you like it?"
"Yeah, did you play it?"
"Yeah, Calamity Gannon is not the best Gannon."
"Facts."
12:06.
Gavin let out a sigh, laid back on the flattened pillow, and watched the TV playing the Office, but not really seeing.
“What?”
“If I don’t pass this test, I can’t come back next semester.”
“What test?”
“It’s like a practical test.”
“What's your major anyway?”
“Nursing.”
“Damn.”
“How about you, what's your major?”
“Engineering.”
“Why?”
“My dad was an engineer.”
“Oh.:
Michael could keenly recall thinking about his major, how math made sense, was the only thing that made sense. How he said it was because his dad was an engineer, but how it was a lie.
But something compelled him to tell Gavin.
“My dad wasn’t an engineer.”
“Why?”
“Why wasn’t he an engineer? He wasn’t anything.”
“No, why did you lie?”
“Easier to say then the real reason.”
“What's the real reason?”
“Numbers make sense.”
“And nothing else?”
“No,”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Pause.
How do you say that every word that comes out of your mouth drives your father away, how every time it‘s not numbers that tumble from your lips someone leaves. How feelings and emotions and words scare people away and Michael couldn't fathom being able to express that, so it’s easier to say that numbers make sense then that words make you feel like nothing.
“I guess it’s just that words hurt.” Michael said. “I just always hurt people.”
And that bitter truth was something never before aired, a dark corner of Michael’s mind always let it stew there, but never quite made it into the light. How last time he let the words actually pour forth that the car slid into the post, and her cigarette breath left her lips for the last time.
How do you even begin to say that? How do you even begin to say that your words are fatal?
“I always hurt people.” He repeated. How do you say you couldn’t even go to the funeral, look into her mothers eyes. Tell her the last thing you said to her daughter was you bitch.
Michael took another hit off the pen.
It damped the thoughts.
Gavin took it back and inhaled.
“Numbers don't hurt people?”
“No.”
“I disagree.”
“Why?”
Gavin paused.
“My mum was just a number.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not a good enough number, she was too old, she was too sick, she wasn’t a good candidate.”
“For what?”
“Lung transplant. Cancer.”
“Oh.”
“3%.”
“What?”
“Survival rate after 2 years when they found it.”
“Damn.”
How did pillow talk turn into this. An expression of your worst fears.
“How did you get through it?”
“I dont know.”
“Is that why you're a nursing major?”
“I guess.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She isn’t in pain anymore, she died after a month, I just wanted to prove the point.”
“That is?”
“Numbers hurt just as bad.”
“What kind of pillow talk is this?”
“Not the best kind I suppose.”
The slow slink of time. Only the hiss of the pen broke the rumbling of the jaunty tune of the theme song.
Where do you go from here?”
“I’ll set an alarm.”
“You staying the night?”
“I planned too.”
“Okay.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I have pizza rolls.”
“Sounds good.”
“Want some?”
“If you were going to make some.”
Michael went to the kitchen, his footsteps echoing across the dirty linoleum. The counter was cluttered, dishes, bottles, empty takeout containers flowed out of the trashcan. Michael lived with 3 roommates, all who were rarely in the house at the same time. It was like living with ghosts. Things moved but you rarely saw the cause.
The floor was rarely swept, the living room with its 3 lawn chairs and beat up couch were rarely sat in other than the rare instances where conversations were had. The kitchen rarely saw much more than the microwave going, an occasional craft mac and cheese. Bottles littered the tops of the cabinets. The trophy shelf of any college house worth its salt.
Michael made the whole bag, he got the munchies and brought them on a paper plate. Gavin was on Twitter.
“Here.”
“Thanks”
Pizza rolls were devoured with only the speed of high post-sex hunger could conjure.
“Why does food sound so good when you’re high but never taste quite as good as you thought it would?” Gavin wondered.
“Dunno.”
“Its kinda like life, innit?”
“Yeah.”
Michael knew all too well. How college was supposed to change everything. How he took out those loans, was going to study, was going to stop wasting all his money on pot. But it didn’t happen. Studying was a struggle, he did okay, but never too good. Always a little more than scraping by. Always a little below average, but well above the slackers.
“When do you graduate?” Gavin asked
“This spring.”
“Are you excited?”
“Yes,”
“Really?”
“No,”
“Why?”
“I don’t know what I want to do,”
“No one does.”
“I know.”
Michael was supposed to move. Find a home with her. But that wasn’t possible anymore.
“How about you?”
“I have a job lined up.”
“Hospital?”
“Yeah?”
“Specific wing or something?”
“Cancer.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yes.”
Who says that? Michael felt bad.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve interned already.”
“Oh,”
“It’s different thought, when you’re on your own.”
“That makes sense.”
“Someones life is in my hands.”
Michael paused. He understood this.
She had been in his hands, in the car, he was driving. He can’t even remember the impact, the only thing he remembered was flashes of lights, the horn, then opening his eyes. He never saw the body. Her cigarette cartoon flung, wedged and crumpled under his body.
But he didn’t say anything.
But then, he did.
“I killed my girlfriend in a car accident.”
Words he had never spoken. He always avoided it, found neater and more polite ways to say it.
Something more like “the roads were so wet,” or “that asshole turned faster than I thought.”
Never “it was my fault”.
Because Michael didn’t know, he had no memories of the accident, it was like a hole in time. He didn’t remember drifting or turning, all he remembered was seeing red, screaming words then the impact.
Gavin didn’t say anything. Because there was nothing to say.
The beginning is awkward, the middle is too, and the end is not.
The high took over, sleep clouded his brain.
He woke up.
Gavin was gone.
He didn’t miss his body, he didn’t miss the conversation. He didn’t miss him. Because he was just a stranger.
How can his most honest thoughts fall out in the arms of a stranger?