A Part

Home again. Parents well. Guest bedroom ghastly. Read Tristram Shandy straight through on the airplane, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 on the Boy's couch, Justine mostly on the Metro, Cathedrals (sadly) on the trip home from the bookstore. Want to write about Justine but need to perhaps read the other volumes.

It has been beautiful seeing the Boy, although I think I may have buggered things up beyond saving. After a couple near-perfect days, I chose to deal with a far too personal problem, curled up sobbing on his bathroom floor the night before he left to go home. He knows most of the bad bits of the backstory- I cannot keep my own secrets and I wanted him to know so he could leave me with no shame to himself. But there is a difference between knowing and seeing.

Everyone living has a body. Necessity, but not one I like. There are worse things than being told you are prettily embodied rather than brave or witty or generous, but I can think of few that are as immediately offputting to me.

But he kissed my neck and held me as I retched and pulled my fingers away from my mouth. He begged me to stop and told me that it wasn't my fault and put me in bed with a glass of water and a trashcan. He told me that of course I am more than beautiful, though he thinks I am that as well. He apologized for his compliment.