Why?!

And, but why is her name "buffey" though?.... This is too much.
See for yourself: http://www.dateamillionaire.com/members/buffey/

The Long Version

It's a little more complicated to explain the 3"x4" tattoo I have on the top of my left foot. A black outline of a fully blossomed Lotus flower. When people ask why I got the piercing by my mouth my answer is simple, "Well I was drunk one night with a friend..." When people ask why I tattooed a chocolate-dipped strawberry to my right hip I say, "It was my 18Th birthday and I was just discovering my sexuality." Even though I actually prefer my room mates philosophy on strawberries which she divulged one night during a smoke session; "Dude strawberries are so weird....there's like, nothing else even like a strawberry. Think about it!"



The Lotus flower (which for some reason I'm realizing I capitalize unintentionally) comes with many meanings and metaphors. In Buddhism the Lotus flower is one of the symbols on the path to enlightenment and Buddha himself was said to have been born on a Lotus flower.Taoist artists use the Lotus to symbolize beauty and light and the Goddess Laxmi is depicted as standing on a Lotus with a Lotus in two of her four hands. And of course the Lotus is most commonly depicted as having a direct connection with the coming and going of the Sun. The Blue Lotus, which opens at day break and closes at night fall is said to symbolize the beginning of creation.



When I was a little girl my world revolved around my mother. Her moods, her ups and downs, when she cried, when she laughed and how boisterous. I adored her in every light, but especially when she was happy. She and my father had, for lack of a better word, a rough marriage. My very first memory in life is being four years old and having Sesame Street interrupted by my parents loud argument upstairs. My father stormed out without a word or his usual request for a cheek to kiss. A few minutes later my mother emerged from the staircase and offered us (my older sister and I) each a huge black garbage bag. "Put all the toys you want to bring in this bag. We're leaving." I remember asking the whole way there where Daddy was. Would he be meeting us in Columbus? My mother didn't have any answers for me, she just kept telling me to look outside the window and enjoy the view. It was one of the many times she left him, and so permanence has always been a concept I've had trouble with.



When I was 13, my parents divorced. As a consequence to some of my father's actions he was sent away to Folsom Prison for a few years. At that point I wasn't allowed to love my father anymore. I was supposed to hate him and so I did. The reasons why were beyond my ability to comprehend. All I knew was that I wasn't the important one, I wasn't the victim or the convicted. I was just the one who got leaned on.



When I was 19 I moved in with my boyfriend of two years. He had just come out of jail for a credit card scam he did in Georgia. I was in love with him. He and I were like best friends. Eventually I got pregnant and we had a reason to ignore our problems. Until my hormones got the best of me one day. I didn't want him to leave, I protested and threw a tantrum. I knew where he was going, I was no fool even in my humbling state. My hand flew from my side and across his face. The next thing I knew I was looking up from the floor at him, both of us in total shock. He'd knocked my 5'4" pregnant body to the floor in one blow. It wasn't the last time, or the worst. Eventually my baby went to God. And that year I tried to commit suicide.



At 23 things were different. I was older and somewhat wiser. I was with a man nothing like my ex, and nothing like my father. He didn't fight me to be right but he was somehow never wrong. But I was battling my demons. I didn't want to admit it, but I felt like the product of my past. I felt like an abandoned child, a battered woman and a confused little girl all at the same time. It was so hard to see all the good in front of me.



I always saw Lotus flowers on TV or in the pond behind our apartment (a Chinese garden was tucked away near the creek), but wondered where they came from. So I read up on them and realized that what they represent is almost as beautiful as how the appear. In a sense they represent rebirth, an eternal cleansing. Shedding the past and allowing your self to be renewed. They represented progress to me as well, persevering through a "muddy" past and coming out clean on the other side. I knew it would take time, but I wanted to identify with myself suddenly instead of where I came from or what I'd been through. It was a point in my life when I finally started to think about what I wanted. I let go of certain friends, and certain habits. I even got a therapist for a little while, someone to talk it out with as taboo as the concept may seem.



So saying all that when someone asks, "Why did you get that tattoo on your foot?" would probably seduce them into a nap or at least a good eye rolling. Instead I tell them that I just think it's pretty and "No it didn't hurt much." Two lies I always forgive myself for.

A Stick of Incense Called 'Black Woman'

Sad, how easy it is for us to ignore her. To search for distractions and almost always find one. The moments are rare that we actually sit down beside her, ask her how she feels about things; find out what she wants. If we spend too much time with her we feel cheated, isolated, maybe even a little worthless. The truth of the matter is so very few of us really know her all. She is what we see when we look in the mirror.



I know that was tad dramatic, but I was thinking about this concept yesterday when I got home from work. I was feeling under the weather so I turned my cell phone down, knocked back some NyQuil, sipped on a blunt (then put it out for another time) and laid on my bed to let the warm sunlight woo me to sleep. Before it did, I let the thoughts run through my mind. Maybe it was the cold medicine, maybe the sweet herb or maybe just the smoky stream of incense drifting above my radiator creating a sheer cloud in front of my window. Either way, for that moment all I could think of was myself. I didn't feel selfish or bored or like I should busy myself with something more useful. I just thought of how I felt, what I wanted and which things in this life mattered the most to me. I didn't think about boys, or my family or any one of my friends, although of course they hold their place respectively. I wasn't trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow, because if it were up to me I'd wear my favorite skinny jeans and my "The Best Girls Are Black" vintage tee shirt. I didn't try and plot my next move or sift through what I did that day to figure out how I could have been more productive. I just laid there and focused on the there and now. The covers piled on top of me, the music streaming out of my stereo quietly, my clean skin rested against the sheets. Anyway, it was calming.



Because you can get caught up in the bull shit. Oh man can you get caught up in the bull shit. Like trying to figure out why suddenly He stopped calling. He should be getting off by now, it's close to 7 pm. He used to call right when he got off. So then you check your phone to verify exactly when the last time He called was. Not the last time you spoke because you called him last, but the last time He really picked up the phone to buzz you. Maybe it's because the last time He saw you, you had on that fugly outfit with the grandma-collar. Damn, you need to go shopping. Then you hope that you get that job you just interviewed for. The one that pays way more than you probably deserve. You think about how much extra you'll have and naturally pick up your cell phone to calculate what amount you can in fact put towards a new wardrobe if you should so happen to get this new job. Then you wouldn't even be thinking about Him, you'd be out on a date with His replacement. Suddenly you realize looking down at your cell phone that you also are in bad need of a manicure. And just as you curse the day He calls. You've just waisted 15 minutes thinking about something you can't control until the next distraction comes along. You could have focused on yourself.



So anyway, that's what I did yesterday. I focused on myself. I figure that's what I came here to do so I might as well get a nice little jump on things. It felt pretty good.

16 Days to Smiles, 18 to 24 and 20 to Security Check Point Sadness

YICK-A-DEEEE!! I've actually picked out all the outfits I plan on wearing to go see D in Houston! I'm excited beyond comprehension. As much as I hate to be that person who's dumb enough to get her hopes up; right now high hopes feel really good. If this were a movie, there would be fast paced music playing and a montage of the next few weeks would stream across the screen. I'd be working hard, and doing crunches (because I promised myself I would), and generally busying myself with daily activities. Instead of course, the only soundtrack I have (at the moment) is my cubicle neighbor talking to her husband on the phone. The only scene I have to view is the light beaming in from 34Th street. I'm feeling the warmth that the sun seems to lay over me, even though I know I can't possibly feel the sun from inside this office. It's not even my 24Th birthday that I look forward to. Another day marked with dinner and perhaps a gift. It's the fact that after a small stretch of time, after 'we' became 'he' and 'I'; I get to look in his eyes again and see whats there. And the reality of it is that I get to see how I feel standing next to him. Will I feel frustrated, and overcompensated by him? Will I feel at ease and sure of myself? Will I feel confirmation that we made the right choice to separate? Will he? Will we stand at the security check point again on the verge of tears and scratch the scab off of something that almost healed? Not knowing is kicking my ass right now.

I'm looking at the calendar as if 16 days isn't that far away. It's a lifetime away, somehow.

Public Drunkeness & Meeting ButterMilk Brown

It was the kind of Saturday night that I'd been itching for. I had been in New York for a complete week now. Aside from Rope, the $1 beer spot we hung out at on Monday, I hadn't really been anywhere yet. Molly and I left the house for Atlantic Plaza so I could make a return at Old Navy. Of course we stopped in Marshall's. How can any sane person pass up such reasonably priced designer clothing? We browsed around for thirty minutes or so, stopping by the fitting rooms to try on our finds. Molly's boyfriend, Ralphy called to let us know there was a party on Church street at his friend's friend's house. So I settled on a top and decided to change into it before we left since all I had on at the time was my favorite Hello Kitty top that D got for me in Houston. Fortunately I'd done my hair; my long shaggy bangs were obscurely falling into my eyes and my short asymmetrical bob was flat ironed and hair sprayed, so I felt secure knowing I was presentable enough to party. We shook it out of Marshall's and onto the train to get to Chris (the friend) house so everyone could meet up. Eventually Raphly, Marshall and Los (Carlos) showed up and we congregated. Molly and I had stopped to get food on the way and were munching on respectively on a sandwich and a vegetarian Jamaican plate. I was so impressed with my Jamaican plate that I took a picture and sent it to D. "Jamaican food made by real Jamaicans...." I text him.

After deciding on a taxi we pulled up to the front of the house and waited around for Chris to park and walk over. Of course we couldn't just go in. We had to wait for our "friend" to come in with us, otherwise we'd just look like a bunch of strangers wondering into a random house party.

It was a three bedroom walk up. The living room was almost empty when we got there. A small group of people were gathered around the keg in the kitchen and everyone else was sporadically placed in the living room. I noticed a bar in the corner, and used shot glasses lining the edge of it. The music was mild hip hop beats, just loud enough to compel you to bob your head.

I sauntered over to the kitchen and waited in line at the pump. I filled my cup conservatively and began sipping. I sunk into the couch in the living room next to Molly and Lori and talked to them for a little while . We all chatted for a second and sipped on our beers. I noticed someone had plopped down close by me on an ottoman and was talking to a girl with gorgeous crinkled dread locks. He was a tall, light skinned dude the color of sugar cane with a page-boy hat on. As he waved his hands in conversation, I noticed a Vietnamese symbol between his right wrist and index finger. As he spoke I realized that his eyes were greenish grey. "Cute" I thought to myself.

As the night progressed, everyone became more familiar as people tend to do at parties. I found out that the girl with the gorgeous dread locks was Jasmine, and she claimed she "absolutely loved" being able to get up and do nothing to her hair. I met a girl behind the bar who was thrilled to play bar tender and concocted a fruity, dangerous mix of dark rum, strawberries and orange juice. The mix wasn't quite dangerous enough so we tried adding Patron, making sure that no one saw us chug half the bottle into the blender. We passed the brew around and the guy with the hand tattoo came up and requested one. "Let me see what mess you two have made."

I pretended to be offended, "Ummm, I think by mess you mean geniusness.." I handed him a cup of our proud endeavour and he tasted it, smacking his full lips together and darting his eyes in search of the right words. "It's alright." He said. But as soon as I started laughing he joined me and poked my arm in jest. The drinks continued to flow.

Throughout the night I remember making my rounds. I went up to the attic and played my very first game of Beer Pong, a right of passage in New York. I ended up drinking two glasses of beer and me and my partner (a guy named Mario) got too drunk to play; our balls just bounced off the walls and everyone was rolling with laughter. I wandered downstairs and chatted with Chris in the hallway. He told me why he wants to be a cop and we discussed the violence in today's video games. I talked to Marshall about my first game of Beer Pong and he tried to contain himself as I'm sure my excitement was amusing to a Brooklyn native. I wondered over to the hand tattoo guy and finally introduced myself. His name was Craig and he formerly worked for Def Jam and was now a free spirit slash club promoter slash graffiti artist. I told him I was unemployed which somehow was hilarious to both of us. We indulged ourselves in another drink and continued talking. I stood by the door as he said goodbye to some guests that were leaving. I snapped a few pictures and eventually around 2 am our group decided to call a cab and head home.

Craig waited with me in the entry way of his building, while everyone else was just outside on the steps. I remember being very close to him, but not hugging or kissing; just speaking very closely. Maybe we thought we were talking too loud. Either way, before I left we'd made each other promise to call and go out soon. "Your FUN!" He kept saying to me with a wide, grey-eyed smile.

Ralphy, Molly, Marshall and I rode home buzzed from the drinks and the energy. We pulled up to our apartment in Bed-Stuy and walked in. I wasn't even thinking about sleeping arrangements. "Marshall's staying over." Ralphy said out of the corner of his mouth, then disappeared into the room with Molly. Marshall and I were left staring at each other. But I was in too good a mood to object. Too buzzed to even mind. I fell asleep fast and the four of us woke up to pancakes and Advil.

On Trying Not To Drink

I'm not going to say that I'm some kind of lush. I've never spent money I didn't really have on a drink, nor have I ever hurt anyone physically while intoxicated. I've never had a DUI or been cited for being drunk in public. I'd say officially, I have a pretty clean slate. But I know that I can drink too much. And as long as I know; that's really all the convincing I require.

Like that time that me and D went to time square. It was one of those days that you wish would stretch on and last, but instead it rushed by so quickly. We decided not to spend it dodging tourists and bumping into people on the sidewalk. So we ducked into a pub and ordered some drinks to warm us up. I had a Vodka martini, dirty with my favorite, Grey Goose. I sipped it cordially as D called a friend to see if he wanted to meet us. Then we fell into flirtatious conversation and without even noticing; my drink was depleted. He automatically ordered me another. By the time our friend arrived I was on my third; this time because the bar tender offered to make me the best I'd ever had. I don't know if he was right, but it sure had more alcohol than the first two. This one I drank slower, and then realized that I had to use the restroom. I excused myself long before I actually started to toggle off of my stool. I straightened by blouse and smoothed down my jeans. Then glared at the obstacle ahead of me. I started towards the bathroom, which was inconveniently located across the large room, down a flight of stairs and around a long winding hallway. I made it to the staircase without embarrassment.

After relieving three glasses of Vodka and olive juice, I primped in the mirror. I still looked pretty hot, so maybe no one noticed how smashed I was. I wobbled back to the bar only managing to bump into an empty chair on the way. Here comes the bad part. So me and D decided to leave the bar, and part ways with the friend. D suggests instead of hiking it to the subway and making our way back to my Brooklyn apartment, we get a room in Times Square and enjoy ourselves. I think this is a marvelous idea, especially since I'd rather not walk the four blocks to the F train in my four inch calf high boots.

The next is a blur to me. I remember trying the W, but no they were out of rooms. I remember sauntering into the Marriott who had a room, only one left; a King suite which D accepted promptly and paid for. I remember getting into the elevator followed by Cynthia Nixon (Miranda on Sex and the City) and her wife. I remember being in awe and hoping that it was really her, because what a tease for it to just be some stranger who looked exactly like her. I remember getting so emotional that I'd seen her that I cried in front of the concierge, who handed me a tissue and a bottle of Evian. I remember going up to our room and struggling to take my booths off by the window. I recall a shower with D, although not clearly. And I recall waking up the next morning void of cloths.

I slid my hand over to D to see if he was clothed or not. Not. Which was rare, because even after we'd gotten busy in the past he always managed to put his shirt and boxer briefs back on while I remained glowing, nude and quite pleased with myself. The fact that his clothes were off told me that last night was a wild one. I walked over to the window and took in the view. Times Square was lit up against the morning sun, the streets were already busy with people rushing and dragging their children on leashes. I tried to remember the night. Tried to sample an image that I could hold onto after D left. After he was on his plane and back in California. But nothing. Not even a morsel of a memory brushed my mind. Flashes of images came, like being in the shower but only for a second. I looked around and tried to piece it together. My clothes were piled on the floor near the bed. His shirt was by the sofa, and our shoes were thrown about. The bed was a mess and there were two towels strewn across a chair by the desk. I started to nudge him, but I knew it would be another hour until he woke. So I took a picture of the room and of D sleeping and kissed his forehead.

When he woke he was disappointed to know that I didn't remember. A knowing grin spread across his face as if he was grateful that one of us remembered the night. A night that may surely be our last. I felt so ashamed that I'd let it slip through my fingers.

So since then, I've counted my drinks. Paid close attention to my consumption. I don't want to let another priceless memory disappear beneath an empty glass of wine or a shaker of vodka and ice. I'm far from being a lush indeed, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Broken Up

It's something that is a lot easier to grasp as a concept . Taking anything day by day is an idea that we know is so simple, so easy; but can feel like watching paint dry. A painful scratch of time that induces you to wince at the sound of it. A day is 12 hours, and the nights feel like more when your used to something that's no longer there. When your in the moment, time stretches out, and you feel so small standing beside it. The feeling can hit you in the middle of a perfectly sunny day, when your forced to take off your jacket so you can feel the sunshine on your skin. Surrounded by sweet music and rushing people. When you should be smiling beneath your sunglasses. Maybe it's the fact that your surroundings are so appealing, that the day feels so good. Maybe it exemplifies the reality that your walking alone. Maybe that's why your thoughts suddenly turn to him. And your eyes start to glaze over without admonition. And the sounds get louder and the people seem to push with greater pace. And the smells start to suffocate you. And you have to find a corner supplying shade. And rest there. You think to reach for the phone. You lift it up and fiddle with the dial. All you have to do is find the right reason. An excuse to offer so you don't feel so desperate. But you know you don't have one. So you wrestle with your thoughts and bargain with your pride. Pride looses, but your still invaded with a sense of integrity. You know it's best to let this moment pass. Even if you have to grit your teeth.

Why?!

This is actually pretty hilarious to me. This video shows the Muslim tradition of "Baby Dropping" in West India. It's a little hard to watch at first, but it kinda makes me laugh. How one cultures devine and sacred tradition is another cultures 'wtf' moment. Enjoy:

http://www.nypost.com/video/?vxSiteId=0db7b365-a288-4708-857b-8bdb545cbd0f&vxChannel=Fox%20News%20Local%20%2D%20Tampa&vxClipId=2090_0501gloria1&vxBitrate=700

Say Good Bye Boogie

He'd hung up on me. In cold blood, so to speak, and definitely knowing that I was in tears. I begged him not to, but he did anyway. As if it were so easy to dismiss me. So easy to ignore that I was in pain. I knew calling him back would be a low move, but I dialed his number anyway and got the voicemail. He'd turned it off. He didn't want to hear me tell him 'I love you'. He didn't want to know that I felt like I'd made a mistake. He had blamed me for leaving long before I'd even left. He'd made it up in his mind that I was the wrong one, and he was the wronged one. Our perceptions both blurred by our own translation of events. I knew begging for another chance was beneath me, even at that moment of weakness. I tried one more time and got the voicemail again. He had probably walked away from his phone. He was probably in the shower already, scrubbing off the day. Drowning out the sounds of my sobs that would no doubt linger in his ear that night.

The week started out rushed. The air was thin and cold, and I had very little to do, but so much to get done. The days slithered by, and I scratched each one off in my planner. When Friday finally came, I took three hours to get dressed into a tee shirt and jeans. There wasn't much that could be done by way of primping. It was muggy and cold outside and any styling I could possibly apply to my tresses would no doubt be defeated by the sharp winds outside. I managed to look decent enough, blew a kiss to the mirror and was on my way. With HopStop directions and a MetroCard in one pocket and my fully charged iPod in my other I felt pretty prepared to face the long journey. I hoped on the A train and rode it all the way to Lefferts, then changed to the Far Rockaway train that would take me to the airport shuttle. By the time I boarded the AirTrain, the butterflies in my stomach were uncontrollable.

By now I was almost 45 minutes late. I had no idea it would take so long to get there, and I hoped D wouldn't be too upset with me. I made my way past the taxi stand outside and into the baggage claim area where I immediately spotted D standing on guard through the glass doors. His irritation disintegrated when his eyes caught mine, and we grabbed each other and hugged tightly. I practically knocked him over, lifting one foot and wrapping it around his legs. "Hi baby! I'm so glad to see you! I missed you so much!" My words were interrupted briefly with smacking sounds as I peppered his face with glossy kisses. He smiled and welcomed the shower of affection.

I felt overwhelmed on the cab ride home. I didn't know how to feel. I placed myself in the safest state of oblivion. If I was supposed to be emotional, I didn't know it. If I was supposed to be upset, I was too distracted to realize. I purposely dumbed down my conversation, kept it superficial and made sure not to bring up anything heavy. I just held onto his strong arms and kept kissing his temples and cheeks.

That night we trekked out to find something to eat. D was impressed by Golden Crust, the fast-food Jamaican spot at the corner. He wanted to get some jerk chicken, but they were out. So we walked further down Fulton street to find another one, but they were out as well. "How in the hell is a chicken spot out of chicken?" He said, only mildly frustrated.

"Cause black folks is black folks no matter where you go." I said rubbing the top of his beanie-covered head.

We hopped on the A and traveled down to the Clinton area. We finally came across an Indian restaurant and checked out the menu posted outside. It was pretty much empty, but we were desperate and I knew it was hard to find terrible food in New York. We took a window seat and quickly ordered. The food was delicious. We sipped Indian ale and half way through my glass I started thinking about how much I wanted to rip his clothes off.

I text messaged Molly when we were almost through and asked her if she and Ralphy wanted to meet us for drinks somewhere. She said they happened to be in the same area as us and she'd come by. When they got there I realized that by "me and Ralphy", she meant her, Ralphy and Marshall. I imagined Marshall feeling like a third wheel around two couples, but instead he looked relaxed and shook D's hand when I introduced them. We headed across the street to a hole-in-the-wall bar and found a table way in the back. D and I ordered Long Islands and sat alone while everyone else smoked cigarettes outside. I laid my head on his shoulder and scarfed down my drink pretty quickly. In the back of my mind I wanted to get out of this awkward situation. Perhaps I belonged there, in a crummy bar with my sarcastic friends, passing slighted comments between each other like appetizers. But D didn't, and most definitely Papa and Boogie didn't. This was my scene, not ours; and all I wanted to do was climb into bed with him and fall asleep. Pretend that we'd wake up in our sunny Hayward, California apartment with Tiny the cat resting soundly at our feet.

The next morning, D and I decided to get out. Go explore the city. We dressed and headed out to the subway station and took the train to Broadway Nassau. We walked through the Seaport, stopping to pop our heads into some of the shops. Finally, we went into a quiet Italian grill and ordered lunch and drinks. "So hows New York treating you?" He asked. It came off as small talk, but I knew the question was sincere. His eyes were steady; he wanted to know my honest thoughts.

"It's treating me fine. I love the city. It's amazing to be so close to all the things I used to see on TV." It was something I could only say to D. Such a "tourist" thing to say, but it was true. He smiled and sipped his beer. We talked about our old life together, about our apartment and how we'd spend our Sundays lazying around letting the minutes stretch on and run nowhere. Our bellies became full and ready for the next spot. We decided to get on the train and continue into Manhattan.

Times Square was a buzz, and I felt like a New Yorker as I angrily surfed the crowd, trying not to bump into the camera toting tourists that were stampeding all around me. We made it a good four blocks before I couldn't take it anymore. "This is beautiful, really it is. But I can't take all these people everywhere." D smiled in agreement, then said the magic words.

"You want to get a drink?" We headed into a pub and sat down at the nearly empty bar. There were a few people sitting in the surrounding tables, picking at their meals and enthralled in conversation. One man across the bar looked firmly planted at his stool in front of a Collins, as though he'd been there all day. I ordered a dirty martini and finally took a breath. D and I chatted some more, this time it was light hearted and flirtatious. He gazed into my eyes and laughed at my stupid jokes. We decided (after the second round) to call his friend Dave to see if he could meet us. About an hour later Dave showed up and I was drunk off my ass.

The night was basically a blur after that. All I know was I woke up that morning at the Marriott feeling like I'd lost something. The memory I could have had with D was drowned and I couldn't even remember how my clothes came off. We ordered breakfast and laid around eating eggs and pancakes. I had two cups of coffee to ward off the pending hang over. It felt like old times again. D and I in our tee shirts and boxers. Nibbling on breakfast, watching the biography channel. We sang the commercial jingles we knew and nestled under the covers, full and satisfied. Around noon we finally got up and dressed for check out. It would be our last day together in New York.

Sunday flew by and before we knew it the wee hours of Monday had crept up on us. We'd spent Sunday evening with Dave at his home in Newark. He had made a beautiful dinner and was a gracious host. D's sinuses were starting to act up and I began counting his trips to the bathroom. Dave suggested that we spend the night, but D had agreed before we left to go to his house that we wouldn't stay over. Half of me wanted to sink into Dave's guest bed and with D and rub his head the way he likes until he fell asleep; the other half of me wanted to get home so we wouldn't have to rush in the morning and perhaps we could salvage our last bit of morning before he left. But D insisted that we leave immediately. I asked him several times if he was sure, but he'd made up his mind. It was almost midnight.

We stood on the platform waiting for the PATH train to come take us back to Brooklyn. The temperature had dropped to the low-thirties and D looked as though he was about to collapse from either the sinus infection, the cold or the late hour. I pressed my body against him to block the cold and held my cheek against his. "Why'd you insist on leaving, babe, you look horrible right now." He rolled his eyes at the blowing wind, but cracked a smile as he spoke to me.

"Because." He simply replied. I shook my head.

"For me?" I asked. He looked at me as if there couldn't possibly be any other explanation.

"Yea, of course Boogie." I huffed and leaned on him again, this time speaking quietly into his ear.

"Papa, why'd you do that? Your going to get sick out here."

"I always like to make sure that your happy Boogie." I fought back tears and swallowed the lump in my throat.

"You take care of you Papa, you've taken care of me enough." Looking back I wonder where I found the ovaries to say something like that to him. Now when I think about him before I go to sleep I wish more than anything that he felt the need to take care of me. But something tells me, no matter what, he needed me to say that to him.

The next day we headed out for JFK around noon. It was still muggy and gross outside so I wore my full length down coat and a beanie. D dressed in his motorcycle jacket and a thick knitted cap. We barely spoke on the way to the AirBus. I slipped one of my ear buds into D's ear and played some music from my iPod, the battery almost dead. We bobbed our heads in compliance and I closed my eyes until we got there.

For the first time since I met D, I walked as slowly as possible. Towards the security check point which was now within eyesight. When we got to the place where you have no choice by to say goodbye, we were both suddenly reminded that this was the second security check point goodbye we'd been through in a month. I looked up at him and suddenly he seemed so big. He looked down at me and smiled in that way he smiles to be strong for both of us. I on the other hand opted to cry. Silently tears fell from my eyes to my chin and down the front of my jacket. D wiped them away and leaned down to kiss my lips. We stood there lip-locked and huddled for not nearly long enough. I couldn't tear myself away. I couldn't possibly find the strength the step in any direction, to even look away from him for a second. I just wanted to remain underneath him, to curl up inside of him and stay there forever. He didn't have to say it, I knew it was time to go. He kissed me one last time, his lips slightly weakened and held onto me for a minute. He admitted to the lump in his throat, and we both forced casual laughter.

"Bye Boogie, I'll call you when I get there." He said wiping one last tear from my cheek.

"Bye baby."

I turned around to see if he was watching me walk away, but my eyes were too blurred by tears to figure out which direction he was turned in. I got the the staircase to take me back to the Airbus and wiped the tears away in embarrassment. We've always been better at silence, D and I. Better at whats not mentioned or discussed. We're two people who can sit in silence and feel completely satisfied. Good at goodbyes, good at hellos. A gold star for knowing when there's no point in talking about it anymore, and when to stand back and watch what happens.