Jinked

After a couple hours of PHP wrestling, I joined in on some Pierre birthday celebration. Mary, Pierre and I went for a small dinner at a Hobart pub overlooking Lake George. At one point we attempted to rent a paddle boat, but it was too late in the evening for that. Eventually we wound up at the Hooka Lounge in Portage. More friends convened. I was glad to see Julie. We forced the waitress to play some chill music on Mary’s iPod.

I was hesitant at first in trying the hooka, but I gave it a go since curiosity tugged my sleeve, screaming about how all of life is an experience, so why not try. I liked the rose-flavor tobacco. It was smooth and a little sweet. Flowery, obviously.

We played pool at another bar until almost two, and Pierre took me home, my mouth still thick with the taste of rose and cherry tobacco as we drove down route 6 in silence. It was a heavy silence. An awkward silence. I don’t do well with nothing ringing in my head because it gives me time to think too much. I over analyze things. It’s why I choose to do my writing in a noisy cafe rather than in the silence of my apartment. Things come out in a consistent stream without worry.

When Pierre pulled into the parking lot of my complex, I couldn’t look at him. I smiled with my voice, said I had a fun time (and I did), then left. I felt things. I shouldn’t have felt things because I had blown my chance with Pierre years ago due to fear. He wanted a relationship. I didn’t. I didn’t see the promise in it or any practicality, but that’s because I was afraid. Instead, I saw other things. Opportunity. Like a door swinging open just a crack and light spilling through.

I felt fourteen. I liked it because I saw the world differently, like looking through a concave lens. Everything pulled, distorted and tricked the eye into seeing things not for what they were but what they had the potential to be. It wasn’t fair to me, it definitely wasn’t fair to Pierre, but it was all I could see and when I told myself I wasn’t in eighth grade any more, it was all I wanted.

He fit the role of red-eyed nightmare frighteningly well, and yet he didn’t know one lick about the part he played. It was exciting, sickening but eventually I would go into mental lockdown. Pierre was one of the only people to have had the (dis)pleasure of meeting Jacky in a fit of a defense mechanism gone horribly awry.

I sort of cringe writing that because it sounds silly and childish, but nevertheless I have accepted that I’d programmed myself for a long time to just shut down in uncomfortable situations. This is supposed to be a good post about a friend’s birthday extravaganza, not a whine-session about flashbacks and psychology. I guess it’s fitting I write about it though because I thought about it last night. I even dreamed of it.

Part of me that looks at Pierre still sees traces of my past. It lines his face. It taints his voice. It’s not fair. I’m doing a great disservice to a friend, but I can’t help it and I don’t know what to do to fix it.

Pierre has moved on. He has a beautiful, wonderful girlfriend whom he loves very, very much. And besides, even if we would have tried things out for awhile, it would have been for all the wrong reasons. I’m sorry.

Happy birthday, Pierre.

Hooka Lounge - Portage Indiana