The Night of the Election

It starts with an offer to chain smoke and talk about life, an offer that any logical person can't refuse. I get my words confused, my conversations rather. It makes me feel like a bad person, like I've had too many interpersonal conversations lately; like I've bared my soul to the point where she can no longer find her shirt when the sun starts to rise and light starts to stream into the short windows panes, and she's embarrassed. But when we woke up, my skin was barely concealed by the mismatched covers that occupy the mattress that I paid one hundred dollars for to keep my back off of the floor, and I wasn't embarrassed.

—

We go into the brightly lit laundry mat; my clothes had started to spill out onto my bedroom floor, I have consciously not gone to this laundromat because I think about how you said laundromats are significant and the community that they create is unprecedented. We meet Janet; she's a Sagittarius, but her husband is a Scorpio like me. We meet her husband outside, we are smoking. He is smoking, but he shouldn't be. I watched him un-tether himself from an oxygen machine before he tore off the foil on a fresh pack of L&M's. I contemplate throwing my cigarettes into the water that has pooled up in front of this kind laundromat occupied by the kind lady. But, then I would have to bend down and pick up every last one, filled with regret and remorse for my actions. A feeling that often occupies my insides. We talk, but I prefer to hear you talk. Your thoughts are bigger than mine and more educated. I am shallow, I am filled with existentialism and self-loathing. I want to die for a cause; you probably will. We sit inside and I listen to your words and watch the dryer spin. My kimono twirls vibrantly, damp and warm in the Speed Queen in front of our eyes. I am listening to your thoughts, but I am captivated by this contraption in front of me and wonder what I would look like with my cheeks pressed against the glass from the inside spinning, warm, vibrant, damp. You tell me an anecdote about kimonos. I laugh. I want to watch Best in Show. I want to visit the avalanche of VHS tapes.

I will tell you about my car wash theory and we ponder the worst songs that we know. We go looking for a car wash; they don't exist at 12 AM. I drive, we go past my old house, you explain a scenario where we could have met before we did. We didn't, but I wish we did, because the thought of your absence—while I have only known you for a number of hours—feels like steel wool on my skin.

"Where are you taking me?" you say.

I know you're not concerned, but the slight twang of worry on your words excites me, because I am behind the wheel and I don't know where we're going. We drive. I try to take you to the Frog Hollow, but I don't remember how to get there. We end up on the river. The air is cold and wet, my flannel becomes damp, the way that your socks feel when you're camping and the dew has settled on your tent and while it hasn't rained the precipitation has kissed everything with her wet lips just to make sure that her presence and overlying supremacy is evident in a subtle, loving way. We walk and talk closely so that we don’t have to raise our voices above a whisper. I ask where the moon is, we can't locate it.

I saw the moon tonight and thought of you.

It's an important night in history, I try not to think of it. I try to think of some place that would be better than where we are. Nothing comes to mind. We walk back to the car, the traffic signals seem brighter than ever because our eyes had adjusted to the pollution that was our only guiding light through our travels. You tell me that your dad isn't allowed to have Christmas lights because of his crazy neighbors. I ask you to touch my sharp tooth. We both find snaggle teeth to be the best orientation in the dental kingdom. We're back in the car, I suddenly feel a sense of direction and take us to the swamp. I reach for your hand, you ask if for a second I was worried that it wasn't you. The thought didn't cross my mind. We listen to the occasional bird make an erratic sound, it seduces me. We find a strange place to stop and are surrounded by cattails. We talk and I feel understood. I offer you my "lucky cigarette", a concept that I thought everyone knew, but you had never heard. I hope that it will bring you good things. We sit for a few minutes next to a hole on the dock, I am consciously aware that I will remember this night. I am consciously aware that the events of the night, the ones greater than you and I, will forever change history. And while you and I are foreign entities to one another, I feel as if this is the last normal experience I will ever have in this world. You were going back to your parents house because you haven't been sleeping, I offer my bed to you and tell you that you're welcome to decline. You don't. We watch a musical that you know all the words too, I squeeze you tight when your sleep filled voice ventilates the verses. I fall asleep. At 6 AM I wake up caressing your soft, mangy hair on my shoulder and feel at peace, because your breathing is consistent which means you've been able to fall asleep. You tell me about the dreams you had where your parents caught you smoking, more than likely caused by the excessive amount of nicotine we consumed the night before. I am in love with theories and ideas, rarely ever people. I am in love with moments and memories and I am in love with ours.