The edges of what you break

Do you remember the night I came over to clean up your blood? You were drunk and had called me in tears. You couldn’t tell me what happened, but I knew what to ask. After you broke the wine glass, you couldn’t stand yourself anymore, so you drew its pieces up the length of your arm. I knew it was really about your boyfriend and the way he made you view your body.

When I got to your apartment, I had to bang on the buzzer and throw pieces of ice at your window. It was so cold that night. I don’t think I was wearing socks, but I knew I was staying the night. The slices on your arm weren’t as deep at I had feared, but I wasn’t expecting that much blood on the walls. Your eyes were puffy but dry, and you had patted down your arms. I brought you a wet washcloth to ease the burning and settled you onto the couch.

Your roommate’s rabbits reminded me of kittens that night. They approached me carefully and sniffed my clothes, but they darted away as soon as I shifted.

You never said anything about that night after the fact. We took classes together. I can remember the day I walked into our African-American studies class, and you told me that today we wouldn’t be having sex. The woman next to you gaped, and we laughed. It was our afternoon class: Sex, Gender, and Sexuality. We abbreviated all of our class names, but we could never agree whether Analysis of Deviance was better shortened to “Anal” or “Deviance.” “Anal Deviance” was an adequate compromise.

Our professors saw us together all the time. I think some of them thought we were dating and yet were very confused. You walked me out to my car when I came over in the dark. I rubbed lotion into your skin when your hands cracked and bled in the winter. We shared taste in music and clothes. We went to shows and rallies together. When Fred Phelps came to campus, you held Nick’s sign up high while I played the Christian lesbian role.

God loves everyone – even bigots

Nick photographed us that day. I don’t know if you knew that. I see that photo every day. It’s you and me. I’m holding the microphone at the rally, and you’re holding up the sign.

We haven’t hung out since September 10, 2001, when we had dinner with Sheila and then played Monopoly. I don’t know what happened, if you had a life-changing experience the next days or weeks, but you stopped calling me back. You’ve never seen my house. You didn’t come to my wedding. You emailed about a year ago to say you had a new phone number. I made the cut that time. I replied to ask how things were going, and I never heard from you.

And when my mom was dying, you were on my list of people to inform. You had sent her a card when she was in the hospital, and she thought that was so sweet of you. You never wrote me back. She’s dead and I miss you.