To better understand this post you should read the one below it first.
Zachary was from New Orleans and had the big easy charm. I would say that I’m a sucker for men in cowboy hats but truthfully I can’t stand them. My great uncle owned a Western shop in Mobile and I had never been impressed. I look horrible in hats, and the Stetson and I just didn’t agree.
I liked tall lanky Byronic men. Zachary was about 5’9″ with brown hair almost the same color as mine. We looked alike. It was disconcerting. He liked to look in the mirror and point this out to me. I didn’t want to picture us in 50 years looking and acting exactly the same.
I read somewhere on the Internet that Zachary was a lousy musician and a great friend. I disagree. While Zachary was in New York his friends were mainly my friends. I had many, and I was willing to share. Just not all the time. Okay, he wasn’t the best musician, but his lyrics were powerful, and he had a better singing than speaking voice.
Bothered me that he didn’t have real friends in New York. It felt as if all of downtown was our age, and everybody was friendly. Maybe they were to me.
My girl friends adored him. Oh he had her of the gravely voice who was to become a major star some years later, but she soon moved, and he had Alan, but I cost him that friendship for reasons I’m not ready to go into.
I’m cursed with a good memory, but I can focus the lenses to always make me look bad. It’s a gift; one that continually gives and I guess will stop with death or dementia.
Usually I can turn my thinking around and be rational, but I had to research my BIO rant, and linked to an anti adoption site that can skew figures like nothing I have ever seen. Have been depressed ever since linking it; as if I’m responsible for people reading it, and maybe agreeing with it. Damn, who says you always needs cites?
Couldn’t sleep much last night because I hadn’t been ready to go where I went with Zachary on my blog. Obviously I gave away the ending. Obviously I took it to places where it hadn’t been.
Zachary and I used to go to the 89 Saint Marks, smoke pot, and watch Preston Sturgis or Thin Man films. Then we would eat somewhere and go to the Grass Roots, an exact dup of The Maple Leaf in New Orleans. It had one of the five best jukeboxes in New York, and Zachary could pontificate for hours on why the oil shortage was manufactured.
I couldn’t understand why somebody who could write such magnificent lyrics could repeat his sentences constantly. Tried to be nice about, and usually was.
I just loved the way we would could sometimes meld into one person. No man had ever wanted to protect me before, except my father. Left home as soon as I was able to; didn’t want my father’s protection.
Every man had assumed that I loved being self sufficient. And I had, and I still did. It was so unlike me to let a man cater to me, but I let Zachary into places in my head I had let nobody before. Damn if it didn’t feel good, much of the time.
Yes I supported us. Small price to pay for the way he wanted me. We would just look at one another, and be overtaken by something more than lust, and desire. With one small flick of an eyebrow, he could put me somewhere not there, and I could do it to him.
He wanted to please me more, or knew how to express it better than any man I had been with previously. I found it enchanting.