shorthand

I like boys who are almost--but not yet--men. They are always older, and sometimes they have a beard, but never are they more mature.

I met the first man late at night in the kitchen. I was still in college, early in college, when you're still sleep-deprived from trying to hard, and you're baking in the kitchen at two in the morning to relieve the stress. His name was Jeff, and he was one of the ones who did have a beard. Two years older, and he was placing chocolate kisses on pretzels. He spoke as if he were a writer, or as if he wanted to be. He used a typewriter. I've forgotten much of what he told us that night, but I remember his brown eyes and the way he talked to me--like he had lived somewhere else, and he was trying to tell me with with the way he moved pieces of chocolate on the counter top. And every time I dared look, he tried to tell me with his eyes.

There was a man I met only twice, and both times, he swelled in music. The first night was a cool one during early summer in the mountains. He sang me to sleep. Neither of us realized that I'd move away before we met a third time, so he played fiddle all through the second night as the bar danced laughingly on the outdoor patio. Again with the cool night in the mountains, this time late into the summer. We didn't say goodbye. I don't remember his name, but he had a lot of sandy hair that hung over his eyes, and a soft way of talking that always seemed to laugh with you, even when you were sad.

Charlie wrangled cows for a living, and he brought raw milk to his friends because it was illegal to sell. He was the oldest of all the men, although I don't know any of their true ages. Charlie had red hair, a beard, and wide, slow eyes. I met him before he met me, across the room at a housewarming party. He was alone in the yellow light with his slow eyes and his hand closed around a mason jar filled with ice cubes and tea. I knew then and there that he was beautiful. And every time we met, he never remembered my name.

I stayed at one man's house when he wasn't there. He played the most beautiful music I had ever heard, because it came without thought straight from his fingertips. He never used a pick, and I can still see his wide fingers and flat nails moving over the guitar strings. He exists as a series of beautiful images in my mind. Early morning on a mountaintop, he and his bike coated with mud after a race. In the corner of a well-lit, well-loved room, putting life into a guitar while the entire house danced. Nearing dusk, when a fog hung thick in the cold air and we all wore sweaters, hugging me goodbye on the mountaintop as rain started to fall. When he spoke, it was as if his words were only for you. We scarcely spoke all summer, but when I needed it, he told me where to find the keys to his house. I can tell you he keeps a calcifying beer can in his shower, and seats from an old van for furniture in his living room. He doesn't own a can-opener, and I think he pries open tins with his teeth.

I have a string of "year-olders," who are so close to boys, but just enough to be men. One was saved solely by a fierce blond beard and gauges in his ears. He taught me everything, except how to love. Another lasted twelve years and brought me some of the best writing of my life. Reality moved us forwards, and we realized contingently that we fit better in memories of each others' childhood. The last was blond, as most of them are, with two scars by the bridge of his nose and hands that do nothing but ask to be drawn.