Day 2 part 3 647.. Day total 1306

Life after Vegas felt tragic. I had come back into town in the middle of winter and the trees and grass were dead. The sun rarely came out and out my old bedroom window the branches scraped against the panes like skeleton fingers. My father was hell bent on sending me back where I came from, even if it meant being locked up like an animal again. My mother was happy to have me back, but I was beginning to feel like I had taken a giant leap back into the life I was trying to escape. Within days of settling back, I began to see some of my old friends who had stayed in town. I knew this would not be conducive to a new life, but I was lonely. My friends welcomed me back with open arms. One of them was my old boyfriend, T. T was my first real boyfriend, (well as real as a junior high romance can get) He was and is the most intelligent person I have ever known. He was reading and pontificating on literature and political issues years before I even considered picking up a book for fun. He was always passing me things to read that he felt were important things for me to know. Over the years we had been together off and on. He gave me Ayn Rand, Hunter S. Thompson, and Oscar Wilde. I gave him The Little Prince by Antoine St. Exupery and read him poetry by Anne Sexton. He turned me on to The Doors, Mickey's Malt Liquor, and maryjane. I turned him on to oral sex and thrift stores. He turned me on to cigarettes and pool tables. Once when I was in college and we weren't dating, he drove about 100 miles on a Friday night to come see me, with a car load of my friends and almost got killed by a big rig that ran them off the road. That was the first night we fucked. We drank mickey's and I stole his rasta hat and ran down the halls of my dorm laughing. They say you never get over your first love, until you realize that what you had wasn’t really love at all. What we did have together was fun. Oh T in your beat up blue jeans and limbs that went for miles, anglo bone fingers so different than mine. Rice paper skin and when cold turn almost blue. Cigarette smoke breath and long demon hair. What could I do to rid my mind of you still aching for the answer of why I wasn’t good enough for You and your family In my brown middle class skin ‘Here, take this’ he said pulling a bottle from inside his coat pocket ‘ I don’t want that shit. Put it away. Can’t we just sit here for a bit’ ‘you don’t want to sit here, you want more. Otherwise you wouldn’t have snuck out of your house in the middle of the night to be with me. Here, have a drink. It will warm you up’ The wind blows the swing on the dark playground in front of us, a foreboding squeal against the quite country night. The bottle is warm and I pull a swallow between my shivering lips. Its sweet and it is warming. ‘There you go…It isn’t bad is it?’ ‘No, it’s ok’ and arm twine and tangle around my waist and fingers settle under sweater onto my skin of my belly. He smells like cigarettes and I like it. His chin is gruff with stubble and I like it when he rubs it against my face. We sit and drink out of the bottle until we are too cold to continue. The green interior lights his face and reflect in his glasses when he takes them off and places them on the dashboard.