Open Letter Series: #1

To the ex-heroin addict who needed a ride home:

I was only half kidding when I asked if you were planning to rape and murder me.

See, I have to be consistently aware of this body’s vulnerability. Past experiences have taught me that my sex is risky; something easily stolen or squandered. I am not a safe deposit box or an armored vehicle. I carry my agency like crumpled currency in the soles of my shoes. I spend too much time barefoot. I’ve learned the last line of defense could be my own offensive line of questioning. I arm myself with quips and one-liners. I plot escape routes before I enter any war zone, because retreat is the most efficient means of survival.

But you were the friend of a friend, and maybe it was tequila, or the moon, or a heady flirtation with recklessness. But the way you laughed (eyes closed/head thrown back/mouth open) made me feel safe. Like maybe I could know you. So we walked ten wobbly blocks back to my car. We swathed our hips in swagger, our mouths curled into apostrophe smirks like somehow we could possess Friday night and all of her pronouns. You said: Her. That one wants you. You said: That one? She wants me because of you.

You have a laugh like a cartoon character, something that starts deep inside you like canyon wind stirring rockslides. You talked to me about drugs, Missoula, and women while I navigated down Burnside. On the bridge men and women huddled like stray dogs, tucked into themselves and each other to avoid the worst of the cold. You don’t want to save them. You want to get them good and drunk. Cases of cold beer and a square foot of basement floor, just one night. They could forget themselves for a while, you say. You say Sometimes that’s all anybody can ask for.

There are times I question my decision-making process. Like when you described prison and invited me in for a drink with the same breath. My agreement? Questionable decision.

Thank you for not locking the door behind us.

Thank you for not sitting next to me on your couch.

Thank you for letting me open my own drinks.

Thank you for being trustworthy.

We watched Youtube videos in your basement until your laptop battery died. You called me beautiful and didn’t try to touch me. You introduced me to Tool . I showed you Metric and the Joy Formidable. You are a boy so beautiful I could have kissed you for not trying to kiss me.

Thank you.

-b

[Hello, weirdos. Welcome to the Open Letter Series, where I attempt to write outside of the bounds of longing/nostalgia/depression! These posts will be dedicated to influential strangers, and the feelings they evoke. Lemme know what you think? P.S. you all look beautiful today.]