Pink Lemonade

Is there a word for when you are thinking about something at an inappropriate time? Thinking about something that makes no difference to you right now, something that could’ve made such a great difference to where you are right now? Is there a word for someone who burned you, but you’re thankful because it gave you the strength to become everything you’ve ever wanted? Is there a word for someone who burned you but you wanted to thank them in person just so you could see them one more time, smell their perfume one more time, lace your fingers in the back of their hair one more time, taste their bottom lip one more time, feel the way their skin on their shoulder fits so gracefully in between the lines of your teeth one more time, a whole repertoire of one more times that you wanted to do with them. He had these one more time wishes because when things were good they were great, but when they were bad, the entire world flooded, and he thought he was Noah, thought you were the world, blind and stupid and sinful, but he was water, and you were a child, not really a child but too young and stupid to know what he was doing was wrong.

He readjusted his fingers on the wall, they had grown sweaty from nerves, from fear, from him. He then began taping again, playing the piano piece on the wall, trying not to think about the other boy. He couldn’t believe he was thinking about him again, he swore he would never think about him again, he swore he’d lock him in a box in a forbidden corner of his mind, admit to himself that he once had enough love in his heart for that boy to burn down the entire world, but make sure to preface the word Once. Once. Once. Once. Once. Once.

“Once.”

He whispered under his breath, trying to block out his image one more time, reminding himself that was the number of chances he’d get to be successful. But then he smelled it, he always smelled it when he thought about him, and he hated that he was smelling it right now, this was his moment, he had worked his entire life to be there, he was going to burn down the whole world for himself, conquer the ashes in his name, build a city of dust and give himself the key because he had finally decided he was worth it. But he smelled that smell, and nothing could change that.

It was a January morning, that’s what he was smelling. That January morning he smelt, the wind was hollow and bitter, something about January always seemed so bitter, like a reminder time was moving and one more year had gone by that you hadn’t succeeded, hadn’t accomplished your dreams, one more year of disappointment and failure. He was standing at a bus stop, the same bus stop he always stood at to take to college, when he saw him. He was beautiful, he was the warmest color on that blue January morning, he radiated, he was like a human glow stick, and it was exciting. His entire life he had never seen a boy glow like that, he had never seen anyone glow like that. He had to say something, anything, even if he wasn’t interested he had to try, trying couldn’t hurt right? So he did, he pointed out that he had never seen him at that bus stop before, and the boy said this was his first time there and when he said it, he could’ve sworn that he watched the boy’s words fall from his mouth like a waterfall of light, before evaporating with his breath. They talked till the bus came, they talked on the bus, hell they rode every stop three times just so that they didn’t have to stop talking, he didn’t care he missed class, he could spend a million years looking at that boys mouth, and the way a fire lived inside of it, the way peaches grew at the back of his throat, the way he wanted to try and reach in and pick one out so bad.

His hand jerked roughly, he had messed up the piece again, hit the wrong key.

“Once.”

He repeated again. This was his moment, his only moment, this was his world, he had built this for himself, it was time for the world to finally hear him. This was going to be it, this was going to be the performance that finally catapulted him forward, finally started to turn him into the star he knew he was. Well, the star he always told himself he was, and the star that people always told him he was.

He had this sudden moment of doubt, feeling his insides suddenly shake, suddenly start to snap.

Quickly, he pushed himself out of it. This was going to be the moment that made all of those awful music rehearsals with his Dad worth it.

His Dad.

There was someone he didn’t want to think about, but sadly, he had to, because how could he not? He was going to become a star, and his dad wasn’t even going to get to see him take the first step. It had been three months since he died, a car crash, and it still felt oddly surreal for him. The two of them were close, so close, he was the one who made him play classical music, the one who piqued his interest in being a musician. The person who starts you on the path of your passion will always hold a special place in your heart, so when the place is forced vacant, it hurts even more, it’s like they had taken your one safe haven because now everything felt like him. Notes sounded like his laugh, pieces sounded of his corrections, hell entire symphonies were written for the way he ran his finger through his beard while his son played, as if trying to hear every emotion, in every key stroke.

His dad told him, music has a terrible poker face, it will always give away what you’re feeling no matter what part of yourself you’re trying to hide it in, it will find it, it will drag it out, it will put it on display, and everyone will love it. He also always said the true way to know everything about someone is to hear them play their favorite piece, because that will reveal everything you needed to know about them, it will tell every story. Is that why his dad always had him play whatever his son wanted? Let him pick the pieces to learn, let him tell his own narrative, did his dad know he was gay before he did? Is that why he stopped giving him piano lessons, because the piano has a terrible poker face, and gave away the truth every time? Could his dad not handle the truth?

He had messed up a different part, his hands were shaking, holy crap, they were shaking, why were they shaking he knew this like the back of his hand? He repeated in his brain what the piece sounded like, hearing every note. The first time he heard something that was a not a note, it was so quiet, he wasn’t even sure if he had actually heard it. But then he heard it again, and again, and soon every note in the piece was replaced with the sound of that boy’s car door, the boy from the bus stop, the boy that radiated?

It was March, a year after they had met at a bus stop, he had dropped out of college to go travelling with this boy. He had fallen in love with him under so many different stars, in so many different places, with so many differences, and so many uncertainties, looking back at those months, he had fallen in love with a tangent. Sadly nothing in those months were real, at least the feelings weren’t, they weren’t really real. Would he still love him in a small New York apartment, while trying to become a classical musician? Would he love him in a New Jersey Cape Cod on a sunday morning while watching cartoons and staying in bed till 3?

He didn’t know.

However, he did love him in the back of his car, that’s the noise he heard, the sound of his car door being closed the first time that the boy told him he loved him, and the first time he believed him, the first time he believed he made someone fall in love with him. You’ll always believe that.

But what they had wasn’t love, it was this strange combination of lust and love, this strange unhealthy amalgamation of the desire for the flesh of a certain person but just the flesh, or just the person, never at the same time, is there a word for that? Is there a word for how mean this boy was he got drunk? Is there a word for all the words he called him, in Kansas, in Oregon, in Michigan, in his car, in a restaurant, in a hotel, in that same hotel he pushed him, in the same hotel he watched this boy that lit up his whole world, begin to burn it.

The sun is perpetually alone, it lights up the world of so many, it possesses so much beauty and curiosity, but should you get to close it will burn you, it’ll char you, it’ll turn you into ash. Look at Mercury, look Icarus, all people who have fallen in love with the sun, and they were all burned, left dead or uninhabitable.

It was time.

He began to walk towards the stage, taking a deep breath with each step, it was time to finally show the universe he was here, he had blossomed.

As he walked, he saw his memories next to him, he saw his dad grow distant and cold, he saw that boy turned fire, he saw that bus stop, he saw his car, he saw Kansas, he saw that hotel, he saw everything. As he walked through the wax museum of everything that had beaten him down, he wanted to tip his hat, say farewell, but they were coming with him. The Piano has a terrible poker face, it’ll drag out every feeling inside of you, every thought at an inappropriate moment. Is there a word for that?

What about this, is there a word for this? This, this thing growing inside that boy, that desire to break out? This, this desire to stand among the stars and dance, is there a word for that? This… this thing inside of him, the beast, the star, the cage, the wind, that wind, that lived inside of him, his ears, his nose, his… his car. Is there a word for when all the windows in your car are closed but you can still feel the wind? Was that boy who glowed a windshield? Could the sun be a windshield? Is there a word for that? That person made everything taste like pink lemonade because it was favorite drink and he still knew that a year later? What was the word for the person that tinted the whole world in pink lemonade?

What about the boy, is there a word for him? A word for someone you will only love during harmonic convergence because somehow the planets aligned just right to let you guys happen for just a second, a millisecond even in the grand scheme of everything. Did the universe like pink lemonade, is that why they were allowed to happen for a small period of time in the grand scheme of things? What is the word for the grand of scheme things? The universe’s script? Destiny’s chess game?

What is the word for when you are standing at the precipice of greatness, and when you look down you see your wildest dreams coming true? What is the word for when you are afraid of falling, but so ready to jump? What is the word for when you are standing at the precipice of greatness, ready to jump, scared to fall, but all you can taste is pink lemonade?

Déjà vu.