For the chirping crickets, an update.

I hope everyone in the US has had a great Thanksgiving! The esteemed day of turkey was celebrated by yours truly by preparing his own, delicious vegan meal including faux-tatoes, cranberry sauce (prepared fresh, thx), bean salad, and one tasty nutburger (seriously).

Ryan, and the rest of my family didn't partake in the ethereal bliss of my raw meal, but we all shared in good times with rings wept over, laughter shared, and causticity restrained. Snow fell as we flew away, and heat greeted us coming home.

So, among catching up on other projects, I'm in talks with a friend from Storywrite for putting together an ezine through Issuu.com. Should be a great promotional collaboration for everyone, and you'll see the first issue right here as it's completed.

Holiday Parties

"Subtle."

Chuck Norris App

Inspired by my friends over at Storywrite. Nobody downloads faster than Chuck Norris. He'll install your ass right through the firewall.

MaCC

For Valentines (Freewrite)

I'm going to be sick. My insides are awash with waves of physical pain at the thought of my only true friend denying me, and I try to cry in the distant hope that it would alleviate the growing pressure in my heart. There has to have been something I could have done...something I can still do, to rectify this situation. What went so irrecoverably wrong? How can he look me in the eyes with all of our achievements, our sentiments, our soul-felt feelings behind us, and tell me our love has stopped? What does it feel like to not care at all? Probably simply, nothing. He is forcefully ripping out, mushing up, and grating to pulp the piece of him he'd given me. I had pumped blood to it, held on to it warmly, and nurtured it with all of my being. Now it lay reduced to a watery mess, and with what remorse? With what compassion?

My skin itches with anxiety and my teeth ache because I've been clenching them tightly. My face feels greasy and I'm sure of how ugly I must look to him right now. If he doesn't love me for what we've shared then he surely can't love me for the wounded, worried, and frantic being he's made me in this moment.

Everyone seems to stare at us attentively from their vantage points, perched over lattes like crows pecking at larvae. Their eyes dart to and from our faces, expectantly; ready to pounce as soon as one of us is left alone. I want to spew the pain on my insides all over him so they'll eat him first. It feels appropriate, as he should at least feel what I'm feeling on his outsides.

My lips fail in their depression, refusing to move. Perhaps it is they, now, who are the most heart broken of all. He could at least have allowed them one last touch, however small. A bit of nourishment they would surely need for the bitter famine ahead, or the breath of a whisper to just induce the blood flow...anything to revive them as they lay stunned, immobile, and morose.

Dawn Rider

It's more of a pilgrimage than anything else. A notebook that looks weathered like it's just been washed and dried with bricks is pulled from inside the drawer. This vessel is folded in half, as much as it's cardboard construction can be, and placed in the back, right pocket of his jeans. I assume this is for easy access. These jeans are unlike any of the others...they are the jeans of his trade. Embellished with years of work and play, they are worn through at the knees and marked at every angle with strokes of genius and dots of frustration. His pocket is lightened in the outline of the notebook.

From the warmth of my curled, fetal position under our blankets, I reluctantly stand and follow him into the kitchen. As he reaches the pantry, I lean into him and pull the worn papers from his pocket. He looks away with a grin as I muse at his plans, and I know that he's proud of his work. I look over the symbols, not able to decipher their meanings, and watch his profile with curiosity as he fills his day bag. His dark hair is no longer disheveled like it had been but is now damp; the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafts in the air after him. I offer the hooded jacket he'd so often left in my care with a steady hand, and tug the zipper just to his collar.

The dark sky has lightened as much as it will today from a pitch black to muted grey, and I can't shake the insinuated chill from under my own layers. His eyes hesitate with my shiver at the bowl of fruit, and he pauses to tuck a few pieces into his bag. The echo of pleading in his gaze is reciprocated by mine and I pull the warmth of his body in close. Murmurs promising of the day's hours speeding by mixed with lips and tongues fall to the floor around us. We both know the time has come. His hooded form retreats with reluctance and he opens the door to the cold breeze of the Autumn air outside. I tug him back from the chill with a kiss at his jaw where it's sure to make him smile, and with that my artist is off to work.

Kissing the Speechless

We'd been playing around. I'd been giving him shit for his new haircut. He was giving me shit for my shoes. We'd bantered back and forth all night, trying to out-do each other with the most hurtful insult. I'd shoved him, and he shoved me back. Hard. I shouldn't have read in to it, but I did, and I shoved him against the disgustingly decorated wall of the theater. Our friends must have walked on ahead of us, because suddenly we were surrounded by strangers. They'd probably been tired of our antics by that point. We'd been berating each other all night.

Everyone had had a laugh until now as we breathed against each other with adrenaline and squared jaws. Our cheeks had become reddened with true anger, self-consciousness, and hurt. My body was pressed hard against his, and as we stared defensively at each other the voltage of our pressure was registered with contact.

Without warning, his tongue was hot in my mouth and my lips pressed back roughly to his. I couldn't let go; he wouldn't let me, and adrenaline took over our instincts. I pushed against him with force and his body resisted with defiance. His nails scratched at my back under my shirt as his hips crashed towards mine forcefully. His hair was tangled in my fingers then as I tugged, forgetting any restraint. The yelp he uttered loosened my grip and I pushed away from him with a jolt of terror. The looks we were met with were those of horrified curiosity, and I felt tears sting ferociously. He'd already had a hand to his blonde scalp and was wincing as he rubbed it. I wasn't sure if what had happened, had really happened, and I looked at him with obviously angered confusion. Only as eyebrows softened and his lips slid into a grin did I understand completely that it had.

Thinking on Super Powers

Honey, we were so drunk and you'd asked me playfully, what super power I'd choose to have. We were walking out the door and I could barely hold myself up and you'd rubbed my back and let me lean on you as we stumbled along. The guys asked you 'man, what are you doing that for' and you said simply, 'he needs me'. I tried to tell you how much that meant to me but you laughed and said it was okay. My words must have been slurring because I'd felt it as you laughed into my hair.

As we took off in the car we'd joked about the power of telekinesis, and moving things with our minds. They asked where to drop me off, where I lived, and you said that your place was fine. They were rude then, making nasty jokes, and I vaguely remember cursing at them for it. You'd asked them, your friends, with conviction why they would ever say things like that. As I leaned against you with my eyes shut tight, I could still hear their reply of 'because, Paul, he's a fag'.

Your body tensed some; I could feel it against me, and you were shaking your head in anger. You exhaled in frustration and put your hand over mine on the seat. Adrenaline kicked in and I raised my voice to them saying just how much they needed to fucking grow up. I'd known them for not longer than a few hours, but they were not being good friends to you then. You tensed again, and put that warm hand on my thigh as if in a warning. I was brazen with alcohol though, and I'd spit a few more choice words at them angrily.

The guy in the front seat must have turned around as we pulled into your driveway because he glared disgustedly towards us. I couldn't see his eyes in the darkened car, but the glint from the headlights made him look sinister and intent. My jaw squared and I returned his defiance with an even stare as you'd tugged on my arm to get out of the car. I then heard you sternly say 'Get back in the fucking car, Jake' as I noticed then that the driver's seat was empty. Just the keys dangled in the ignition, and the beeping of the open door had made my stomach sick as I got out.

As his fist contacted your cheek, I shoved him so hard to the ground. You sniffed, spitting out something dark to the grass; you grabbed my arm, pushing me towards the house. 'Kevin, go inside' you'd instructed, harshly at first, and then softer, but there was no way I was leaving you out there with your friends. I shouldn't have insisted that we accept their invitation, but they hadn't seemed at all phobic at the time. I guess you hadn't told them that we were together.

As I hesitated a hand slammed into the side of my skull, and then once again as I'd lost my balance. I heard the word 'fag' before everything went black, and awoke only as the sirens were nearing. Your neighbor had called, I suppose, as I recognized her a few yards away watching. You'd waved to her as we walked from class that morning, and she'd come over from watering her pots. She'd asked how you were enjoying college, and reminded us again of how happy she was that we'd found each other. I'd felt a fluttering in my stomach then, and had squeezed your hand to mine. You'd replied with confidence that school couldn't have been better, and put your hand around my waist as you always did.

Her face was contorted now though, and she hugged herself; gripping a wad of white Kleenex. She'd always been like a mother to you, you'd once said, and I hated for her to see you that way. The lights from the ambulance had swum before me as I'd been helped into it by stoic faces. I asked fearfully where you were but nobody would give me an answer; their gloved hands just put needles into my veins. They kept asking what I remembered, and what hurt, and I just kept telling them what hurt was my chest. I think my heart had been broken already then, because somehow I had already known. Later, they'd said you'd been bleeding inside, and explained how they just couldn't stop it in time.

I didn't get to tell you I'd thought the super power I'd have chosen would be just to be able to fly. Now, though, the only super power I wish I'd had was to hold my tongue and have you back by my side.

Polaroid Documentation

I wondered what you'd think of me if I'd documented and showed to you my day in just photographs. You, perhaps a distant acquaintance, trying to piece together my existence from a stack of off-colored polaroids. The imagery from Sia's music video comes to mind, but it wouldn't be anything like that; I have only a budget for maybe ten or so.

The first one would probably be of me and Ryan waking up. I'd have set the timer and jumped back into bed with him. Just our messy heads would poke out from under the fluffy, white comforter of our bed. Indistinguishable lumps under it would form our bodies, and the walls would be painted grayish green. Maybe we'd be kissing, but maybe not. We'd look in love, though, because we are.

The next one would definitely show Ryan drinking his tea. The red mug he'd hold, he'd rinsed out from the morning before, and the morning before that. The blue tag of his English breakfast would be grasped tightly between the thumb and middle finger of his very articulate hand. His gray-blue eyes would look at me through the lens of the camera, and he'd be smiling appreciatively. You wouldn't know this from the picture, but he's an amazing artist. Even just his hands have taught me so much.

The photo after that would probably be one of me at my workstation. I'd be in profile, sitting at my Mac with the mobile pressed to my ear. The desk I was sitting at would be pretty messy with toys, papers, and art supplies. To you it'd probably look like I was surfing the net in a tshirt and boxers, but really I am hard at work. That is the beauty of graphic design, and what affords Ryan and I some frivolous pleasures. I'd have taken this one with the timer again because Ryan's usually gone to work after tea.

Next you would see me in transit and I'd have headphones and my book bag on. I'd most likely have a carrot or an apple because I enjoy the crunch as I'm walking along. This one would be over-exposed, probably at an awkward angle, with my head fuzzy, and the spikey palm trees in the background in focus. The days here are beautiful so I get out from behind my computer as often as I can.

After that you'd see me with someone who you thought was me, but he'd be wearing different clothes. He'd probably be silly and lean against me awkwardly, with his tongue stuck out at the lens. You'd probably guess by this point we were twins. It'd be indistinguishable from the shot, but I was born first, and he's a little bit shorter than me.

Moving on to what would surely look like midday, Ty and I would be sitting outside. You'd see his hands motion blurred in midair as I took a bite of the pita and hummus on the table. I'd have a glass of tea, and Ty would have a mug of coffee. There'd inevitably be someone in the background gawking towards us like they'd never seen two people communicate in sign.

The next one would show Ryan and me walking the beach; maybe with our arms around each other. The sea-foam from waves would be at our bare feet from the ocean and our pants would be rolled up knee high. The sun would be setting and it would look to you maybe like an advertisement except for, of course, we're both guys. My hair would probably be all over my face, and he'd look out over the water. We'd look amused and content because the beach is where we go to feel most alive.

Next would be Ryan, Ty, Shelby, and me around the table for dinner. There would be lots of sushi before us, and we'd probably each have a glass of wine too. We'd smile from the image happily because none of us can eat enough sushi. The Japanese waiter would be in the shot too. We'd have convinced him to give us a smile.

The last one you'd probably be confused because you could only make out a blue couch against darkness. The movie we'd just put in would be casting eerie shadows, and it'd be just enough to realize we were back home. In this one you'd see two people on the couch at a distance, and if you squint you could tell it was Ryan and me. We'd be laying together on the couch in the blue glow; arms around each other sleepily.

Defining the Word 'Unhealthy'

As a boy, my mom had always reminded me that to be a successful person, I must develop a healthy lifestyle. I must maintain healthy habits. These, she explained, were formed by doing things that maybe we didn't necessarily want to do all the time, but should force ourselves to do anyway. Eventually after time, they would become ingrained, and the repetition of them would just happen without effort.

I had developed a lot of habits. I woke up every morning at 6:30...jogged two and a half miles or the distance around my apartment complex approximately three times. I then showered, making sure to get all the soap out of my hair and use conditioner weekly. I was on time to work.

I chose water over soda, and fruit over cookies.

I did laundry every weekend, and studied before playing.

I brushed my teeth.

So, when one weekend I'd come home from college, you can imagine my surprise as she sat me down worriedly; accusing me of developing an unhealthy lifestyle. She'd spoken with my sister who had apparently told her every detail of my personal life away at school.

Yes, I dated boys.

It wasn't an unhealthy lifestyle, though, I'd protested. It wasn't ingrained from forced repetition, but was ingrained because it felt natural and obvious. It wasn't even a habit, really, because it was effortless to be honest with myself.

These boys I dated felt just the same way.

You can imagine my horror when she reasserted herself and reminded me I must be a successful person. I must maintain healthy habits, which were things I didn't want to do, but should force myself to do anyway. I should repeat them until they became ingrained, until they became a lifestyle.

Bars of What?

"Have some," He says, holding the bar of squared chocolate out to me as he swallows the missing corner.

"Nah, thanks," I wave it away casually as we walk side-by-side down Madison on our way back to the hotel from dinner. Accompanying the gesture by saying 'have some' is purely indicative of his assumption that I won't accept. Unless encouraged by accompanying words, perhaps he figures, his gesture will be met with refusal. He knows this, but asks anyway probably just in case I've magically changed my mind. I wish I could.

"C'mooonnnn," He taunts playfully, pushing the candy towards my lips with a laugh.

"Really, I'm fine." I say distractedly with minimal annoyance. We'd eaten not more than an hour ago. I wasn't hungry at all. I put an arm around him in a peace-keeping gesture. Today had been a beautiful, but tiring day.

"Taylor, it's chocolate," He responds with a little pout. He hugs me briefly and follows it with a suggestive whisper, "...an aphrodisiac?"

I grin helplessly with the implication of his words and the little shiver his voice spreads over my skin, but again I refuse.

He's insistent, and bites a tiny square into two halves, holding one out to me.

It's not that I don't like chocolate. I do. The thick, viscous, bitter taste of dark chocolate is recalled on my tongue from years past as I write this. But I don't buy it, and I definitely don't eat it, and as I do nothing to accept his offer of a mangled, half-square of chocolate that's touched his teeth, he grumbles something halfway playful sounding, halfway serious.

"You just can't, can you."

I say something--anything--to try to assuage the situation...but he's right. I can't touch it.

"Doesn't Dove make soap?" I ask trying to sound amused but come off as sullen in the hopes of a subject change.

To that he says nothing, and puts the chocolate into his mouth returning his gaze ahead as we approach our hotel.

Upstairs, it's like it never happened. He's forgiven me, though he would hardly consider it that. That's probably how we can exist together like we have for so long. He's understanding and supportive in ways a lot of people wouldn't be. Whether he does it because it comes naturally or because he loves me, I can't tell. Either way, for this reason--among all the others--I love him.

Things to Remember (Freewrite)

Remember how when you were younger and you learned about Beethoven and rhythm in music class? Then, you went to math class and learned about how numbers can be equated to each other to derive an equivalent? In English class, you sat behind that boy who made your heart beat a little bit faster. You were too shy and too focused on writing down the vocabulary words and keeping up with the teacher's instructions on how to cite a source, though, to ever talk to him.

After math, it was lunch where you were given meat, vegetables, and a sweet on a compartmentalized tray. You didn't much care for any of it, but your mom had to work early and didn't have time to pack you a lunch. With all the video games you played, you could barely get up early enough to eat breakfast, let alone make food for later. So, you ate it anyway because you felt shaky and sick if you didn't (Trust me, you'd tried. The granola bar you'd grabbed on your way out the door didn't suffice as a substitute.)

But feeling full of carbohydrates and processed foods you felt somewhat satisfied--or drowsy, maybe, and it was time for history where you learned about the revolution and the civil war. These things didn't really make all that much sense to you, and you felt like you could go to sleep in that stuffy classroom. Who cares about wars? They're over. Learn from the mistakes and move on, you'd said.

Art class was always a nice change of pace from the notebooks and desks. They gave you inks and clay and anything messy to just do exactly that; make a mess for an hour. At the end of it, you got to call it art and joke with your friends about who's was the most phallic looking. Science, too, peaked your interest with the study of fossilized remains and the water cycle, and how pollination and reproduction worked.

Remember how you felt when--in that moment while painting and gluing together your science board for your science fair--you realized how it all was inter-related? Beethoven used math when composing in his rhythm and harmonies. Artists and writers were the people who incited revolutions and stirred up public thought. Science, well, science was a lot more than a fair. First of all, you'd realized, you were creating a piece of art that really had nothing to do with an egg being sucked into a jar. Sure, there were scientific processes of vacuums and chemical reactions and forces of pressure; but here you were using numbers and math to calculate them. You were making sure your thesis was expressed concisely, was grammatically correct, and you made sure the board looked awesome with the right layout, measurements, and illustrations (the color copied ones with the cool looking arrows on them for awesomeness, of course.) And damn it! Those vocabulary words, you noticed while reading them, were in your books and newspaper all the time. You understood what they meant, and you should have gotten to know that boy.

In that moment, compartmentalization of learning made as much fucking sense to you as school lunch. Learning was not made of separate notebooks and separate subjects. Everything, you realized, should be in one notebook--a journal. Learning, you now understood, was about relating these things together. People could not be separated out into rows or columns of desks or knowledge. We, you'd said, were not separated into religions and apartments, but were all related and joined to each other by everything.

The limits and bonds once trying to secure you to the sectioning of the fabrication of your life fell away, and you were left floating aimlessly; to question and explore everything. The things your parents taught you seemed not to be so cut and dry, or black and white anymore. The world was a murky, damp puddle of gray that you waded through, occasionally slipping into too deeply. You, or someone, always pulled you back out though, and you learned how uncomfortable it was to walk in wet clothes for a while.

Crazy Pills

I won't be stupid and say that I've never made a mistake...I'm just like anyone else. But for you, though, I tried so hard to do things right--to do things that made the most sense. You know that. I tried to be whatever it was people saw as rational, moral, and observant at all costs. And most of the time I was, wasn't I? So, when I tell people how it happened, they're pretty appalled. What happened with us made so little sense at the time, please understand how it still feels for me. I wish it--everything--had happened differently, and I feel like I should say I'm sorry. I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you, or myself. I just wanted to save everyone--I wanted to make everyone feel needed--and I know that no one person can be everything I was trying to be. I said I loved you and I meant it every time. But, I couldn't save us all.

Our teen-aged minds and bodies were so deceptively young. Our hormones and instincts fooled us into believing we were older than our emotional years. We were all just trying so desperately to find and control ourselves, you know?

We were all friends through high school, and we'd all just turned 19. The rambuctious years of college were upon us, and we all felt that boundless sense of freedom. It was Fall semester and we'd just gotten our schedules, remember? Devon was obsessed with Donnie Darko, and we watched it at two in the morning laying on the couch in the apartment you both shared. He'd fallen asleep, leaning against me as I was in the middle, and you whispered to me that I should come over on Tuesday because we'd have the apartment to ourselves. You must not have realized that you told me wrong. It was Thursday that you didn't have class.

But as Tuesday finally rolled around, I drove my jeep to your apartment and parked out front in that space reserved for the cleaning lady. I walked up the stairs and used the key with hello kitty's head on it to open the door. I heard the shower running so I relaxed on your bed for a while, flipping through your Nylon Magazine. We'd never done this before, and I wanted to tell you how nervous I was feeling...honestly, I--it did. I looked around at your room...the posters were of bands I'd never listened to. You had pictures of all your friends on the walls, and stuffed animals on the bed from when you were younger. I didn't want to do anything there...I felt so out of place.

I could see the bathroom door open from your room, and the nerves in my stomach jumped to my throat. When Devon walked out, adrenaline rushed through me. I was expecting it to be you. And we both knew how he felt, Lisa. We did. I just wish I could have realized what I felt sooner.

"Devon!" I called. He was still dripping from the shower, and he looked towards me with the widest blue eyes, startled.

"Nate! God, you freaked me out," He trailed off, the heat rose to his cheeks as we both realized the awkward excitement of the state of him in his towel. You and I, we both knew. He knew that we did. Even though he didn't say anything, we tried to make him feel comfortable about it. That was my only instinct...I didn't want us to be awkward. He'd put aside his pride for us most of the time, which is pretty insightful for a 19 year old. He was always saying the craziest sounding shit that we'd only realized the gravity of much later. Being around that was amazingly inspiring, we'd realized. He'd always been our best friend and he shouldn't have had to censor who he was. Nobody should ever.

I walked out to the hall to talk to him. His hair hung around his face, and beads of water trailed from the ends of the blonde threads to continue their journey across his skin. He wiped at some of them, distractedly. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans, glancing at a mole on his chest as I spoke.

"Sorry Dev--Lisa was supposed to be..." I motioned to your room, and he nodded in regretful understanding, "She's not here, is she?"

He made us laugh with his jokes when he was nervous, remember? I laughed because I thought it was funny at first...but he wasn't ever kidding, Lisa. I think we both knew that even if we didn't admit it. So, I wasn't laughing, then. It hurts to think of what he said at times, when you realize how honest he was being. His brows scrunched up with embarrassment, and he bit at the ring in his lip more nervously.

He shook his head wordlessly before turning to walk the few steps to his room. He was shaking a little, and I knew I'd caused it. I felt like I should have left then. Devon wasn't emotional that way, you know? He had such a Zen outlook on life all the time. I wanted to encourage that and not whatever anxiety crept up on him when he joked with self-loathing like that.

I followed him, apologizing, and he just shrugged it off like it was fine--like it didn't matter--as always. It would have been so much easier if he didn't care anymore, I'd thought. It was exhausting, trying to balance you and him, you know? So, his next question, though honest as it was, threw me into turmoil.

"Nate...why are you still here?" He asked, keeping the annoyance from his voice and avoiding my eyes as he turned his back to me and pulled on shorts, "Lisa won't be back until like, 5."

I didn't know how to react to that question. Well, obviously we were friends and maybe I just wanted to hang out with him. But then I knew, Lisa...he didn't have to say your name. Panic, or more probably, relief coursed through me. You knew, and you'd led me here to accept what you'd realized, or admitted, before I'd had the chance. It was my turn to be embarrassed, and for my cheeks to flush. I watched his profile, the way his chest expanded as he breathed in, the way he looked down like that and pushed a hand through his hair confidently. My body ached. You knew it would.

"Dev...how could..." I said sharply. My mind was reeling, "You knew I..."

I choked on the words. I'd never fought with my instincts and my false sense of rationality harder than I did in that moment. I couldn't finish my sentence--but I didn't have to because he'd turned to me with reassurance in his eyes. I felt ashamed for the time I'd spent denying this for us--for you--and squinted against the burning tears of honesty pushing up my throat. I let him kiss me, and he was timid and polite, but I kissed him back with the hungriest intensity I'd ever known. The skin of his back was warm and inviting under my figertips and I didn't let go--I could only pull him closer. I accepted myself, then, and realized how used I must have made you feel. Amidst my perpetual apology, Lisa, I have to say thank you--thank you a thousand times.

Wavering Unshakable

"Yeah," He replied, the words catching in his throat so they caused his voice to crack, and he continued in answering her more carefully, "We've been in this apartment almost two years already. How crazy is that? As house mates, us two guys seem to be pretty compatible people. I mean, with you too--it's like we all feed off of each other or something."

As Jordan said this, he inhaled from the joint between his gloved fingers and exhaled so that smoke swirled around his naturally highlighted blond hair. He'd been hesitant to get high, but Allison had talked him in to it before. After all, she'd said, it was a natural gift from God. It was relaxing and engaging for them both, and with less consequence it seemed, as Ben was absent for the night.

Allison had moved in to the old building while going to college in the city and since then, her two roommates had moved on leaving her with empty rooms. She'd met Ben first when he answered her housing board ad. He was in her year, and in the same housing situation she was, so she was quick to say yes. They'd spoken only a few times in passing, but he'd seemed to her to be the sort of guy she could have a real conversation with. Not hurting her first impressions of him either was that he was well-spoken, tall, dark-haired, and had a boyish smile that could, if values were shifted, charm the pants off a prude. The two had begun to hang out a lot and were having coffee in one of the hipster cafes downtown one night. Ben had struck up a conversation like he always did with one of the musicians playing that evening, and so had found the like-minded Jordan who moved in a few weeks later.

Jordan was not quite two years younger than her and Ben, and just as casually attractive. Allison was quick to discount her attraction to both of them to the fact that all of her former roommates were girls and either caustic atheists or pretentious prep school wannabes. To hear Switchfoot coming from Ben or Jordy's room as she walked in after class was a change, and a welcomed reminder of how relaxing living with chill guys could be.

Luther was a heavily affiliated school, and it didn't really surprise her that both of the guys were Christians too. The three of them had become champions of these profound, but sometimes ambiguous, conversations here on the crumbling steps of their building from two years of late nights. Still, Allison felt that they were lacking some sort of truth or somehow missing out on a deeper connection.

Allison wrinkled her nose and with a sarcastic grin, let out a guttural moan and threw up her mittened hands in the air for effect.

"Wait wait, I'm not feeding off of anyone here! You and Ben can 'feed' off of each other all you want." She exclaimed with a good-humored, prodding lilt to her voice.

"Oh you know what I mean, Allie! Philosophically. Spiritually." He grinned in realizing how his words had been interpreted.

The brushed silver cross he wore around his neck was well covered by a scarf and pea coat tonight, but Allison knew it was there. He wore it with everything, and she'd be surprised if he took it off to shower. It hung by a thin, black leather cord, and was quite tasteful. She knew very well, too, about how it seemed to suffocate him sometimes. His parents had given it to him when he'd been confirmed, and it meant a lot to them that he wore it. How much it meant to him, though, was yet to be determined she thought. He curled a stray piece of hair across his forehead and around his ear and his shoulders hunched in the cold breeze. What he said next in his uncharacteristically, slightly-inebriated state, indeed, was only fueling of her suspicions.

"It would be great to have that kind of connection with someone I was intimate with, though. But intimacy just cheapens relationships...throws them in to the realm of superficiality and then ultimately defeat, you know?"

Silence fell over them from the cloudy, night sky, and they both looked towards the sad, single street lamp emitting a lonely glow over an equally miserable, crumpled barrel of a trashcan. Winter here meant tingling conversation muffled by cold wind, and heated conversation in constricting sweaters and overly warm apartments. Here, winter meant exhilaration in dueling extremes of inducing solitude and bringing people close. With unfortunate familiarity, the heavy feeling of sadness began to sink into Allison's chest. She decided to not dance around it in hoping to not offend anyone, and just articulate to him what she was thinking.

"God and whatever higher power is out there wants us to be happy and healthy, Jordy. Sex is so much a part of life and love...how can it cheapen a relationship? How could that kind of commitment and connection ever mean defeat?" She countered defiantly but carefully, pulling the last bit of smoke through her fingers and snubbing the burning ember of what was left into the snow. She itched her scalp under the two loose, blonde braids that hung down from under her multi-colored snow hat.

"Yeah, but when you've got such a consistently reciprocated, deeply felt connection with someone--when you can know how they're feeling and what they need far past the basic, animal instinct of sex--that's when it cheapens the relationship. It would defeat everything when we're not meant to be sexually compatible in the first place."

His last few words fell right in time with the soft beginnings of a snow fall, fragile and telling. Allison took a breath of the frigid air, watching the specs glide from the blackness above down to the thin reflection of white at their feet. They both knew who it was he was talking about--it wasn't her--and realized all of the weight his words held as gravity descended upon them. She took a breath before gently interrupting the quiet of denial in his silence.

"So...is that a Freudian afterthought or just a lame excuse?" She asked quietly.

Flakes of snow had begun to decorate Jordan's hair, cheeks, and eyelashes, but he paid no attention to them as her words stung his skin. After a pause, he cocked his head towards Allison. In the darkness, she could still make out the red at his cheeks that always made him seem so young. With a sheepish smile, he exhaled through his nose in a little laugh as he wiped at his face with fingers of woven blue yarn. He hit his jeans with a muffled slap as he let his hands drop back to his lap defeatedly. Eventually the smile faded and he looked away again, seemingly agitated by having to explain.

"It's His word we've gotta live by Allie, not mine."

Painter

The brush is wide and coarse, and with it he stabs over and over again at the canvas. The smell of oil permeates this room, even with the windows allowing the breeze to waft through. He's adding what I can only describe as the color of orange sorbet, and the beginnings of a sunrise becomes apparent. The sound it makes is sort of like tapping a bongo drum with sandpaper, and it's sometimes rhythmic with the music keeping time from his playlist.

I watch, enthralled by his technique, but more so by the way his body reacts to each movement. It's a critical squint of his light eyes, and the following furrow of blond brows that tells me he's focused. It's the tilt of his head as he pauses, hoping to see things from a fresh and new angle. It's the splatter-painted hand on his hip as he puts the brush down, and the blond hair he pushes out of his eyes as he steps back. And to think, he does this to relax.

In this room, he looks like a rebel artist, energetic and slightly neurotic. The only thing living in here is atop his easel as he hums and moves like a parasitic creative host. As he notices my presence though, the neurosis subsides and he snaps back to being just mine. A genuine smile appears at his mouth and in his eyes; we share this creative contentment of life.