recovery

we alight from the bus on oxford street and i start walking straight ahead. you're a few steps behind me and you shout out "where are you going?" in that clear canadian accent, not really angry about it but maybe a bit defensive. i stop in the middle of the pavement with drunken and hurried folks streaming past and say "this is the way to tottenham court road, i've gone this way for years." and then you jog a few steps in your heels and grab my arm lightly and say "oh, you're right, my fault." more sing-song accent that i could never hate.

we meander through the streets and come upon the premiere and i'm at a loss for what to do; the press area and the flashbulbs and the ropes and security, it's all alien to me, i let you take the lead. you do so in a way that suggests i am not the first clueless male you've led by the hand through this sort of environment.

we walk through the double doors behind all the madness and it dawns on me that i've been in this building, years ago, as a teenager. it was with jennifer and we were going to see some play for class credit. this is a fleeting memory and before i can really think more about it we're dodging oncoming assistants and stagehands and then i am plopped into a chair right smack in front of vanessa redgrave, cbe. well, this is something to write home about, i think. she is very pleased to see you and strikes me more as the kind, older woman down the road rather than international acting legend. we make small talk about the weather and so forth. she has a few drinks in her, i can tell.

our shoulders touch as we sit there. miss redgrave asks how long we've been a couple. you look at me, hair falling in front of your eyes and cheeks. i turn to her and respond "only time will tell..." she smiles a grin of "good luck". i brush your hair to the side and kiss you on the lips, lips the color of clouds just after sunset.

some italian model with huge poofy hair walks by and you two catch up in quick bursts of foreign conversation. i redirect my attention to miss redgrave and we talk about obama and unemployment before she makes a hasty exit towards a group of autograph seekers and harried-looking producers.

later that night we walk back to the goodge street tube arm in arm. but the intoxicating buzz of what's filling our hearts is not present for some reason. like the looming dark sky above us, i know it's her, back in the states. a sinking feeling. i can't escape. here my life has changed, i never thought i'd have someone like you just bursting forth with affection, but it does nothing.

the dreadful realization that if i walked a few steps off into the night, you'd cry out in your cheerful accent and ask where i was going. but i wouldn't be able to tell you, and i'd have to leave you there, on the pavement, in your heels, crying as the drunken people stream past.