For Aron...

Playing Burial's new offering, Untrue. I have not loved an electronica album this much since the birth of Massive Attack. The beat that pervades through much of the album is click and trip, like a lust hiccup joyride. This calls for some freefall writing….

For Aron, you blatant beauty. For your crystal white legs beneath your David Lynch-red dress and how men would follow you, dumb with yearning, as you stretched your stride down Granville towards Robson, sleeveless in minus 10. For the way you claimed yourself old enough to play with broken glass. And you did, shifting the shards of shattered champagne flutes around on the countertop, waiting for the right menagerie of reflection to signal the jigsaw’s completion. For the way you could stand in a darkened room and feel all those eyes on you, somehow letting their hungry gazes sink into you while also rejecting them. For the time you let the square-jawed lesbian pluck a cigar from your cleavage. The way you smiled without an ounce of innocence as she lit it and looked you over one more time.

For the time you tricked me into ordering the world’s biggest pancake, laughing as I was publicly heckled for “not being able to handle ten inches.” For all those hours of Tori and Trent and Twin Peaks. For letting me chant the raven’s lines in the elevator so I could scare myself…. “hurting me…hurting me…”

For your love of bagels and how you made it so easy to be dragged away from my studies to spend time stacking up memories of the things you said. “It’s hard to frolic when you’re harnessed.” Yes, yes it is. For your fondess of artists and melting wax and the way you added "I'm a girl" to all your applications because the spelling of your name confused people.

For your strange vanity that you sometimes wore like it was an unwanted gift bestowed on you by others. For your false fearlessness and the way you could go all cute, your eyes wide and your hands grabbing at nothing during moments of comedic drama.

And finally for Nietzsche the squeezable tiger with the enormous whiskers and how you used my insight into the original Friedrich’s madness to make sure he fried inside the pages of your philosophy essay. “I can detect movement with my nose” offered the moustachioed philologist, just before he and Jung landed in God’s lightening bath and the curtain dropped with “the discernable sound of sizzling.”
There was my name in the footnote: informant.

I miss you. Write me you bitch.