TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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My roommate, the gorgeous Argentinian mathematician interested in "infinities within infinities", leaves soon to housesit for his supervisor. Who will share this lovely flat with me? Comes with wormery, a balcony adorned with tomato vines, and morning light that kisses the jars of avocado seeds and liliputian disco balls arrayed on the windowsill, scattering rainbow flecks across the sitting room. Also: the sight of ships slipping into port from stormy sea.
No more jovial Jorge, his bizarre dawn workouts, his jam on crackers for dessert, his cigarette breaks, his tendency to sleep by 9 or 10 pm, while I tiptoe about, the domestic vampire. (I neck beer, rather than maidens, and attire myself in dissertation chapters.) The day to my night.
. . .
And my favorite guy departed this afternoon. He rang me from an airport about as big as a house, reporting on how much his luggage weighed before and after he put on another coat over the one he wore, the one he didn't need now but he would need anyways in the city he will inhabit for the year. Only a year. Of course we talked of mundane things. How many miss yous can you say?
I've gotten used to departures. Others, mine. Maybe that's why I write less here. The idea of someone, me, leaving was once so traumatic, I had to write down my mad appreciation of the moment. I wish I could say I understand now, maybe that would mean it's not so traumatic anymore, but here I am, dry-eyed and calm, here nonetheless.