You Can’t Go Back to Eden
I know how to find the nexus of the universe.
If you go out walking, through cold, deserted streets, sometime between last call at the bars and last dance at the clubs, you find yourself caught in that hazy middle, between not-quite-yesterday and not-quite-tomorrow, perfectly alone. The rest of the world fades away, until nothing exists except you and your thoughts and the next square of pavement. You can bring a friend sometimes, a close one and certainly never two, and you come out enlightened, somehow, with this zennish sort of acceptance and understanding of each other. You can bring a lover, too, and that’s even better, because it doesn’t matter if the world tries to keep you apart, because the world doesn’t matter, not in there. The darkness wraps around you, like a cocoon, cold and warm, lonely and deliciously intimate, all at once, and for those fleeting hours, all that matters is the way he breathes and the way he talks, the way he fits against you, all long, soft-sheathed muscles and gentle, supple curves, but most of all the sparkle in his eyes, and the way he tries to hide just how much you mean to him, just how much he trusts you with the secrets of his life.
I spent almost every night there, with Nicky, back when I could call him mine. When he left I spent them there, alone, never trusting the girls or boys after him with that delicate, perfect place.
It’s the most beautiful place in the world, a little slice of Eden.
