I was half-stoned in my pajamas, explaining my recent traumas to Kurt. I shared the anxieties I have, the aversions I’ve created for myself in intimacy, and of all the fears that seem to brush against me when I am alone.
Ghosts. He said. We are haunted by our pasts.
Some of us are haunted by everything we have felt and who we’ve become because of it. The people who have hurt us, they linger; the memories of their faces. The thoughts that replay over, and over. The resounding fear, and the echoing trauma. Some of us are still haunted by our pasts.
I get a text from Chris. He’s just got out of work. I agree to pick him up at his house, so I change back into my clothes. He takes me to Lake Merritt. It’s a man-made lake in the heart of Oakland. The stars are out. The walkway around the lake is dotted with glowing lamps. Inside me, something hesitates. I feel closed off, like a room with no doors. He is expressive and talkative. I feel mad at myself for wanting to shut down.
We spend time walking slowly around the black lake. My hands are shoved deep into the pockets of my faux leather jacket. Stop for a second. He says. Do you see that? It’s a Murder Bird. That was a name made up by him and his friends. I look over to the side by the water. A small bird, seagull-like, creeps along in the darkness. Its shoulders hung low. A long, sharp beak protruded from its head, swaying from side to side as if it were searching for something. It looked sinister for sure.
We light up some cigarettes. There is a slight breeze. The homeless are making their beds as we pass them by.
He and I talk about all of the things you are not really supposed to talk about on a first date, like how hurt or heart-broken we were over our exes, or how much damage had been done to us. Or reminiscing about all of the great musicians ruined by the simple association to the ones who caused us pain. It means something, though, to be able to share and show scars to one another (whether emotional, or physical). I appreciated how receptive he was, how easy it became for me to slowly tell my story. In that moment, we needed each other. He listened. I listened too.
We journeyed to a pagoda made of stone. Grungy teenagers hung around one side. We sat on the steps on the far end. I began to notice my body language more. My legs clamped together, hands folded neatly. Closed off again. Why am I like this? Why can’t I relax?
“I want to kiss you,” he said. And so his body moved forward and our lips met in the sweet darkness of the infinite beyond our eyelids; our bodies unfolding like blossoming mandalas in the night. His hands and mine, frantic and searching, like anchors racing to the ocean floor; our hands made to grab hold of each others’ hips, to pull and keep steady. The intake of breath again and again, we are water creatures on land. The sounds of night cascaded all around us in a grandeur silence. Desire worked its way through us, hot and pulsating and red.
We made our way back to my car. I’m going to put on our newest song. And we drove through the empty streets. The nectar of sound drowned out our thoughts. The lingering smell of tobacco, traffic lights changing endlessly. Where are things going? Why did we meet? Was there any significance in this intimacy? The truth was, that I might never see him again. The reality is, is that people use each other, for one reason or another.
You are the only other person outside of my band to hear this song. He tells me.
I don’t know what to say.
I pull up past his house. He pulls the cord from his phone, and the music is severed. He unbuckles his seat belt, and kisses me quick on the lips.
Let’s hang out in the daylight next time, okay? I nod, and flash a weak smile.
When I get to Kurt’s house, I send Chris a text message.
What was the name of that song? I ask.
Haunt. He replies.
That night I fell asleep in the company of ghosts.
Heart At Bay 