Come As You Are by Theresa Weir Page B

stand there and look at him. I knew he would be out of my life one day, and I wanted to remember it, and remember how he looked in bed in the morning, his hair a mess and curling over his forehead and around his ears; his jaw dark, needing a shave, his lips red from the night before.
    But I didn’t take a picture. Of course I didn’t. I just tried to memorize him. His flat nipples, his flat belly and the faint line of hair that trailed from his navel to his penis.
    Sometimes I wondered why he never volunteered any information about himself, but Ian was smart—another thing I liked about him. I suspect he knew, maybe not in words, but he understood that I always wanted him to be that guy I met in the bar. The one-night stand who just stayed a little longer. Because when that happened, when you knew someone wouldn’t stay, it led to sexual experiments that a person might be too shy to try if you knew you might be together for years.
    During this time, and in between the sex, I went to school. And sometimes Ian helped me with my harder classes. Those days we’d sit in the finished kitchen, books across the table, white cupboards behind us along with the cement countertop, and he’d lean close and carefully explain a math equation.
    Those evenings made me feel a sense of warmth and completeness, a calmer kind of happy that was just as good as pale-yellow walls. And those nights we’d go upstairs to my room, because we always slept in my room, and our love would be so tender and sweet it almost hurt my heart. Almost. And I would feel his hands tremble against my skin, and I would blow against his neck, soothing him. He would lock his fingers in mine, and he would wrap an arm around me and hold me tight.
    This. This is what I’m afraid of , I’d think. And I would know I was getting too close to what I didn’t want, and what I couldn’t allow. It was getting too real.
    When I felt that kind of night in the air, and as that kind of night became more and more frequent, I’d tell him to sleep in his room, and I’d tell him I had to get my seven hours because I had an exam in the morning. And he’d go to his room, my father’s room, and I’d hear him turn and sigh, and I’d imagine him naked under white sheets. And I would miss him.
    I never wanted to miss him.

Chapter 16
    “What do you think about this table?” Ian asked.
    We were standing on the front lawn of a massive stone church located in Dinkytown. The church was having their annual bazaar that involved the congregation dragging in all of their crap until every corner of the church was filled. What wouldn’t fit inside sat outside on the lawn.
    Visitors to the Twin Cities always rave about the fall, saying it lasts forever. Two months, usually. I don’t know if that’s so remarkable because I’ve never lived anywhere else, but I’ve come to the bazaar almost every year. It’s where I got my dresser with the oval mirror, and one time I picked up a vintage hat with black netting that I’ve never worn. Maybe someday…
    We both had albums tucked under our arms. Me, Songs of Leonard Cohen , the one with “Suzanne”; Ian the Rolling Stones Let it Bleed , the one with the cake on the cover.
    We both wore hoodies that we’d unzipped as the weather had warmed up. Leaves crunched under his sneakers and my boots, and I could smell coffee coming from a nearby café.
    The table was nice. It looked like something that had maybe come from a grandmother’s house, something that would have had a crocheted tablecloth and a matching buffet. But the idea of picking out furniture together made me uncomfortable.
    I checked the price tag. “It’s kind of expensive.”
    He didn’t seem to have a problem spending money on stuff for the house, and I’d started to wonder if he was some trust-fund kid, or if my father had stashed away more cash than I’d thought. I could ask, and Ian would probably tell me, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
    He bought the