Those who do not move do not notice their chains.
Fuck this blue collar money we’ve been in Kristen. Let’s rape the white collar- We can do it together.
But today, when everything is produced in the millions and billions, then trashed today and reproduced all over again tomorrow, when the planet is looted and polluted to support all this frantic and senseless growth, it matters- a lot.
—Richard Smith, Sleepwalking to Extinction
If you’re not busy being born, you’re busy dying.
It was bender Sunday for me. Since I hate sports when I’m forced to go to a game I handle it by drinking an undoubtedly high volume of alcohol. That usually does the trick-makes it fun for me. But when you start at 9am and you find yourself 12 hours later, still drinking, chatting with a cute boy with a name you can’t quite remember, you realize maybe you shouldn’t be in public anymore.
When I woke up I was still partially drunk, with just enough time to brush my teeth and rub the sad clown eyeliner off my face. And I remembered fuck, I have a Doctors appt. Waiting in the doctors office I paged through my phone to find that I had texted everyone I knew yesterday to tell them I was drunk and that I hate football. Sweet.
Then I had to get naked, do a full body skin scan. I am still confused why my doctor looked at my bum for skin cancer, but I figured googling “Is it normal for your Dr to check your butt crack for skin cancer?” on my work computer wouldn’t be smart- so I refrained from that.
She looked everywhere though, and I started to get concerned when she started taking copious notes. I was right, because it meant that she thinks I could have skin cancer-wait what? I was still thinking about reinstalling web MD so I could self diagnose what kind of skin cancer I could have and then google more ridiculous things like, “am I going to die” when my Dr was scheduling a biopsy surgery with me- Do you have a boyfriend that can bring you in for it? (I’ve got a goddamn phone number sharpied on my hand, what do you think?)
And then- right then, I passed out. When I came to she was holding a cold water bottle in my armpit, telling me not to freak out until we get the biopsy back.
Their first kiss had been outside a dumpy bar, stolen quickly-excitedly, caught still in a cloud of Marlboro Light smoke they hadn’t quite escaped. Stale 90s music had played while they kissed laughingly, drunkenly, both as strangers without prerogative.
Their second kiss had more substance. It was on their first date and it was when she realized she had mistook him that first time. As their lips touched, opening and closing, and she looked in his eyes she saw something of herself in there. Something soft and open and exposed.
Later laying down to bed one late night he gave her a sweet peck to dismiss the day- a sign of their ease and comfort together. As she was drifting off to sleep he startled her awake, blurting out messily his feelings for her in a neurotic verbal essay. And just as she found herself insulted he told her for the first time that he loved her. She laughingly returned his token, falling asleep with a smile on her face.
That winter he had left to go north for many months and that parting kiss had been a slow and sad one as they both knew that this absence could mean the last one.
Then there were the many nights eyes closed that she had thought of him, his lips on hers, his lips on her body that physically yearned for his. She thought of him with her and not separated by miles of ocean and mountain, nor as a cold text or email or phone call- not what they were.
Their reunion kiss was unromantically set on the side of a busy road, his boss looking on. As they kissed that time they pulled each other closer, tighter for the first time in a long time. She wondered how he had changed since he left and she felt part stranger to him.
It was then that she looked up, realizing she had drifted away for several minutes. She looked at him reading his periodical and she realized he had changed-they had changed. He looked so far away just across the small table.
Another couple entered the cafe- a happy, embracing one.
She looked back once again at her coffee cup, the imprint of her lips on it seemed prim, plain-cold even.
She thought about that as she reached across the table for his hand. Hands, she thought to herself, they are the mark of friendship, lips the mark of lovers.