The hour badly spent

Among English majors — well, the fun ones, not  — there is an unspoken race to make sex the topic of conversation. Wednesday afternoon, in the process of reviewing for an impending exam, I found out that winning isn’t everything. Rhymes With Fairy and I discussed Alan Seeger’s poem, "I Have a Rendezvous With Death."

I have a rendezvous with Death    
At some disputed barricade,    
When Spring comes back with rustling shade    
And apple-blossoms fill the air—    
I have a rendezvous with Death            
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.    
It may be he shall take my hand    
And lead me into his dark land    
And close my eyes and quench my breath—    
It may be I shall pass him still.            
I have a rendezvous with Death    
On some scarred slope of battered hill    
When Spring comes round again this year    
And the first meadow-flowers appear.    
 
God knows ’twere better to be deep            
Pillowed in silk and scented down,    
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,    
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,    
Where hushed awakenings are dear …    
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death            
At midnight in some flaming town,    
When Spring trips north again this year,    
And I to my pledged word am true,    
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Pompous English Major: It’s a strangely erotic poem.  It’s written in the language of love, with sexual imagery. I think exaggerating the erotic with the valorisation of Death mocks Romantic ideals.
Rhymes With Fairy: Erotic? I don’t see it that way.
Pompous English Major: "Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep?" Come on. That’s clearly a wet dream.
Rhymes With Fairy: No! I don’t wanna look at the poem like that.
Pompous English Major: "I close my eyes and quench my breath." Come on. It’s an orgasm.
Rhymes With Fairy: Fine, you’re right.
Pompous English Major: Well, what do you think of it?
Rhymes With Fairy: I hate you. [ed. note: not really]

Over spring break, I drank at John’s house every night until Thursday. On Thursday Woody suggested we drink at the bars in downtown Long Beach, and I offered no protest.

Hours later, while Woody sat passed out, face down at a table in Dubliner’s Irish Pub, John and I scrutinized a nearby hipster.

“You don’t understand, John. That’s exactly my type. The dark-framed glasses; the no-nonsense bangs; the cherry-red lipstick; the heels; the arm tattoos; the leg tattoos; the skirt. Oh god, that skirt. On a related note, holy fuck, am I drunk, or is that is a nice pair of legs?”

“Yes to both of those, man.”

“Like, if she and I were to ever have sex, upon climax, the semen would stream out of me for hours and hours until finally there was nothing left of me.”

“I get the idea. Thanks for the visual. But what do you make of the unceasing swarm of dudes around her?”

“It does kind of take me back to a dark, lonely, miserable place. Remind me, what was that called?”

“Prom.”

“Right. I don’t think I like her so much any more.”

This morning’s conversation with the cute girl I sit next to in Spanish class:

Heart of Bubbles & Gold:    "Your gum smells really strong."

The Hour Badly Spent:       "That’s not my gum. It’s my pheremones. They’re grapity-fresh. Later on they become wine."

Heart of Bubbles & Gold:    "Well, I’ve also got morning sickness. So it could be that everything just smells stronger."

I pondered this for 0.000000000000003 seconds.

"Pregnant?"

"Mm-hm."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I started to say "oh congratulations" or something like that but I think it came out as "I’d still hit that." 

The imprint of her head on the pillow
Her scent in the sheets
Along with, possibly, a few long curly hairs
And her puffy black coat.

Later, with a smile, I realized -
she’d be back.

For the coat.