through these glasses: don't say a prayer for me now

My entry for this month's Blogging for Books:

We hadn't seen each other in months when he called to share the news: he'd finally cracked and purchased the coveted ipod---and now he wanted my help. Of course it was a ploy to come over. He's in IT, makes his living knowing technology.

"Will you help me?"

There it sat, like the mystery leftover in your good tupperware at the back of the fridge. You can't bear to throw away, but you really don't want to open it either.

...and the lights are flashing on your window sill...

The glow of my laptop filling the room, we figured out how to move my songs onto his new toy---he always was a bit cheap---from mine. I have an eighties playlist on shuffle. I'd gone on a nostalgic music bender at the itunes store early that week, downloading songs my high school self couldn't get enough of.

...all alone ain't much fun...

It should have come as no surprise that even after all this time, sitting next to him made my heart race. If nothing else, we'd always had a primal chemistry...

...so you're looking for the thrill...

and he knew it... Sometimes I really convinced myself that he wouldn't stay away from it because I couldn't. Transference anyone?

...and you know just what it takes and where to go...

His hand is on my knee now. Itunes shuffles over to one of my sentimental favorites.

...feel the breeze deep on the inside...

My eighth grade self is doing some sort of happy dance. All those nights in front of MTV when sleepovers meant girls in pigtails and pjs, waiting desperately for a glimpse of this new video, that new group. Ours had been Duran Duran that year. We couldn't get enough of them.

...look you down into your well...

When they finally came through Chicago on tour the next year, I was sooo over them. But they've always held a special place in my heart---one where the daydreams of a fourteen year old on the verge of discovering boys collided with the reality of the celebrity crush. My inner eighth grader eggs me on, knowing that this is her only chance to dance to this song with a boy she's crazy about without worrying about her two left feet. She sat on the sidelines for every school dance; she's not going to sit on the sidelines tonight.

...take a chance...

"Dance with me."
"What? Why?"
"Come on, I'll tell you why in a minute."

...and you wanted to dance, so i asked you to dance...

As we make slow circles on my creaky living room floor, his lips find mine. I'm not strong enough to pull away. I'll never be strong enough.

...but fear is in your soul...

I know where this is leading. We've tried being just friends before. It never seems to go as planned. Friends becomes becomes "friends with benefits." Inevitably, I silently wish for more as he pulls away---he's not ready; it's him, not me; the timing's off... so I go away, often wordlessly.... until the next time... Some day I'll find my words. Perhaps that will break the cycle.

...some people call it a one night stand...

I've been here before. I can crack a joke when the song ends, diffuse the situation and explain the I've always had this thing about kissing a boy to Duran Duran's Save a Prayer. He'd laugh with me, make some smart remark about my unfortunate taste in music (which will seem poignantly absurd this evening in particular. after all, he's here because he likes my taste in music. but the special kind of rivalry that developed when we realized we share a birthday would never allow him to admit it outright. ), and we'd go back to moving music from one ipod to the other.

...but we can call it paradise...

Suddenly, I don't care about tomorrow. I know tonight's monkey bliss will leave me empty. I don't care about the repercussions. I'll restart my 12 step program again tomorrow. Tonight I want to drink him in, hangover be damned.

...don't say a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after...

A few months later, I'll indulge that eighth grader again. Duran Duran will be in town on my birthday---our birthday. When they play Save a Prayer, I'll smile at the memory. ...and remember that the morning after was spent listing to Careless Memory at top volume, my adolescent self raging against all of the injustices in the world.

...I walk out into the sun, try to find a new day...