Dating : 8 Minutes

It’s a funny thing. I’ve got these friends, right? And we all love each other without saying we love each other. We love each other like boa constrictors love a rat. We love each other like rose vines love an ankle. We love each other meanly, with a little too much teeth, scraping the bone because we don’t want to waste fresh meat.

And I’ve got this dream, recurring-like. Damn thing won’t leave me alone. And in the dream, I’m there, and so are all the rest — Milo and Joey and Hannes and Will. And we aren’t mean with each other at all. We treat each other real gentle, like you treat a baby or a stray dog. Coaxing, maybe, scared to press too hard. Holding, cradling us like eggshells, afraid we might just break apart. And dream-me really eats it up, all that softness. Like I’m starving for it. Like maybe I want to be held in the cup of someone’s hand.

When I wake up, sometimes — only sometimes, only when I’m still too sleep-drugged to remember — I forget that the dream love isn’t real. I just roll over and lay my skin against theirs — not hitting, not like usual, just enough to feel the warmth. And when they dig their teeth in my exposed belly, I’m not expecting it, so it hurts even worse.

Funny, right? Who cries over a dream because it’s too nice? I don’t cry over anything, not since my ma — and I don’t talk about it, either. What good’s talking gonna do? Same with crying. Just a waste of good salt. I read somewhere that we need eight minutes of touch a day. It’s not like food or water. We won’t die without it. But it’s like sunlight. Going around, untouched — it’s like living underground.

In real life, sometimes my friends and I get real drunk. I’m talking black-out. I’m talking praying to the porcelain god. I’m talking falling asleep in the shower. I’m talking waking up with someone’s underwear stuffed in your mouth.

So we get real, real drunk, right? Drunk enough that we can touch each other without leaving bruises. Drunk enough that we can fall asleep together like kids. But sometimes I’m not really all that drunk, not like I say I am. Sometimes I’ve only had one beer, or two, and I just lean against them, all soft, and they let me. I always pretend I don’t remember in the morning.

Maybe one day we’ll be able to reach out for each other without needing something to blame.

In the dream, I lay beside him on the mattress, bodies pressed together at twelve different points. I reach over and take his hand. I hold on for eight minutes, and it’s like the sun’s rising under our skin.