Silly question, if you live in Seattle. I have been here since the last days of April. Visiting a friend, well . . . more than a friend.
We’ve decided to ‘give it a try’ . . . living together in his loft on the sixth floor of a building, one-and-one-half-blocks from the Pike Street Market. I’m back, downtown, where I’d rather be. After 27 years in San Francisco, then a major move to Orange County to be with my daughter in the ‘burbs,’ now, the moans of sirens at 3am and honking cars are music to my ears.
I was born in Seattle. Official War Baby. Lived here for 11 months, then parents divorced and I ended up in Southern California. New dad, two baby brothers. I met my Seattle friend in fifth grade. We were not pals, but were aware of each other. He moved in different circles. I was into music and talking; he was into being cool. In the tenth grade, he gave a party. I don’t know why he invited me, [he doesn’t remember] but it had an Hawaiian theme. I was in line to get my lei, when he reached out, grabbed me, and planted a juicy kiss on my lips.
“You are not the prince,” I said to myself. Later, when I told my mother [I have no idea why I told her this], that he was too short for me.
“Don’t worry. He’ll grow,” she announced.
He grew, in my heart. We had separate lives, married other people, dropped LSD and roamed Griffith Park while at USC, yet nothing ever went further than that.
He kissed me again just before Thanksgiving, in 2021. A walk on the beach. According to him, it was electric.
“He’s tall enough now,” I would add, to tell my mother who has left the planet.