Jan 1, 2007

hey handsome

It wasn't all that different today than on other dates that we've had.

I put my mascara on in the taxi.


You were still asleep. I didn't want to wake you.

Hey, handsome.

I kissed you hello.

I found myself wondering how it is that I am watching football.

Almost enjoying football.

An ex jar head who also loves The Sound of Music.

I love that about you.

You smiled.

My day started. Right there.

My whole focus is in keeping your hands off of your staples and stitches.

This is new.

And I find myself worrying about stupid stuff. Like becoming someone I don't want to be.

Like a harpie.

Or a nag.

Continually pulling your hand away from your head.

Not new.

I worried about that before.

I edited myself. In the past.

From saying stupid things.

Stupid things regarding health or vitamins or the practice of proclaiming FUCK first thing in the morning.

No, not fuck. Yes.

Say yes to the new day.

I put the kibosh on myself that day.

Don't tell someone how to live, Vic.

(Ok. I won't.)

Man, I'd give anything for you to be crabby in the morning right now.

It's all about stitches and staples.

I have to keep your hands off of those.

I watched in horror as you pulled one out today.

Then you looked at it. The staple from your head. Like you were expecting it to be something else.

Nothing bad happened as a result.

But, Tom, THEY WILL KILL ME (they, the nice people at the hospital) if you get an infection as a result of you touching your head.

And, I will have to kill me, too. I will. If you get an infection.

Somehow they are nice enough (the nice people at the hospital) to let me remove your restraints in the first place.

It's all in the interest of "allowing you to be unrestrained".

So when I get there I take them off. The restraints.

That's the understanding.

The happy moment.

You love me right then.

In the interim I constantly monitor, intervene, stop you from touching your skull.

And I am outwitted by you.

I turn around and realize that you are touching your skull.

When I leave I put the restraints back on your arms.

This will prove to be bad for our relationship.

Later on.

I'm certain of this.

So, I have you write on a clip board.

You request chocolate.

Not new.

You did this even when in the best of health.

Tonight I fed you fruit and a protein shake.

I've never fed you before.

I was reluctant on the grounds that it might make you feel weird - me feeding you.

But you were ok with it. I'm so glad. Because today it was about getting you to eat.

I even got you to eat the puree of turkey.

Sorry. I know that sucked.

You ate five spoons of it. That was five spoons of protein.

And the doctor said that it will be protein that gets you out of the hospital.

I was so glad she said this in front of you.

Chocolate was the reward for the turkey.

I will bring you pureed pasta fazool or lentil salad. Whatever you want.


You are so affectionate.

You kiss me. You put your arms around me. Hug me close.

It makes my day. There is nowhere I would rather be.

I love you.

Leaving sucks.

I don't want to. But I know my being there exhausts you.

Five hours of me.

Fawning over you. Grabbing your hands away from your stitches. Watching football. Putting the red glowing thing back on your finger.

You really want that red glowing thing off.

You really hate that red glowing thing.

More than anything.

I finally let you throw it on the floor.

That's bad.

I know.

But it turns out that the red glowing thing isn't very important.

I just wanted you to have the satisfaction.

Of thowing it on the floor.

I was tired.

Besides, it felt like solidarity.

Because, when you look at me and mouth the words, "get me out of here" - a big part of me wants to.

Despite the obvious.

It's the purity of your request.

You want out.

You pull at everything. All of your tubes. In preparation for your escape.

You want to leave.

And I want to help you.

I want to hatch plans towards your escape.

I look you deep in the eye. I nod my head. I understand.

Yes. Let's go.

I want to pull up on a motorcycle and get you the hell out of there.

Sneak you out.

Steal you. Run away with you.


As though you are imprisoned.

Bring you home. Nurse you back to health.


Everyone would be so mad at me if I did.

None the less.

The red glowing thing.

It moves around. From hand to foot.

Today it was on your middle finger.

So you kept pointing it at me, giving me the finger.

And I gave it back a couple times.

In solidarity.

Which was funny.

Then I went to grab a piece of gauze and when I returned you had undone all of your tubes and wires.

And you had both hands resting on top of your head.

That is, your stitches.


You are.

Later I asked you if I was bugging you. If you wanted privacy.

You shook your head no.

But I know it has to be otherwise.

Even in this situation - you're polite.

Sweet. Decent.

I watched you become drowsy from whatever they gave you tonight to sleep.

I said goodnight. Told you that I'm going to dream about you.

You just looked at me.


You shrugged. Raised your eyebrows.

Just like in life.


Protecting me from me.

I worry about you

Ok sleep. Just sleep.

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