To lie beneath a million bright stars in the soft sand of the desert is a gift I never expected. Sitting on a sand hill near the camp, I listened to the camels breathing and stared at the stars and processed his words. It felt perfect. We sat with our legs pulled up, talking about poetry, feeling the shimmering connection between us grow, one delicate tendril at a time. Every so often, a shooting star would take our breaths away, and we’d pause to take in more air and wonder at the wonders in the sky. Then, we’d slip easily back into conversation, just a little bit happier than we were a few moments ago.
Climbing was una mierda. At first, I trailed behind him, taking steps slowly but with determination. I was going to make it to top of this mythical dune. He clambered up in quick bursts of energy that inevitably ended with him hitting the ground, with nearly his whole body pressed against the stand, the light of his phone illuminating his silhouette. It looked amusingly like the outline of a grasshopper or a spider, limbs asymmetrically splayed outwards, his body held inches from the ground, poised like an agile creature waiting to leap towards its prey. Meanwhile, I lumbered upward, pausing for necessary breaks that consisted of harsh breathing and silence and stars. Three times I reached his resting spot and collapsed, lying on my back as I regulated my breathing. At each pause, we broached a topic, like living in Kentucky or growing up in cities or feeling out of shape. There were many moments when I was filled with the desire to just stop. Each step was a tiny battle, and each stop gutted my motivation. But that light of his, always just beyond my reach, kept me gasping and crawling and falling. There was no way I was giving up. Towards the end, he made a giant burst to reach the top, and I toiled away for what felt like forever, sweating in my jacket and looking down on my hands and knees at the shifting sand that was steadily undoing all my work. Finally, I felt the bright light from his phone hit my effort laden brow, and I mustered all my strength to make my struggle look noble instead of pathetic. I used a strong voice to make quippy comments, as if my soul was unaffected by it all.
In total, we stayed for nearly 3 hours on the top of the dune, side by side, staring at the ridiculously beautiful sky and stars. It was like each word I said fell with a perfect thud into the perfect phrase into the perfect sentence, all coalescing to create an articulate version of me. The words just fit. He asked interesting questions, and I had interesting answers. I asked interesting questions, and he had interesting answers. The pauses were delicious. Above all, I felt understood. It was a connection that, for me, was uncommonly meaningful. I had never before felt such a high level of comfort and trust so quickly. Already, I could feel how valuable this memory would be to me, how important this connection. Already, I was afraid. Afraid of what? I was afraid of losing him by wanting too much. But what did I have to lose with this boy I met just three days ago? What was the risk if this boy would be living on a different continent in less than a month? My brain's risk analysis system yielded a result that was nearly zero. My fast beating heart's risk analysis system produced the opposite result. I supposed the rest of me averaged out the numbers, and I was left feeling brave and fearful.
I remember how convinced my body was that I would never find anyone I cared about as much as the boy who stole my heart. After all, how can you recreate something built over thousands and thousands of small moments of intimacy? Who else could I share so many firsts with? Who else would make my heart catch in my throat and make my stomach turn and make me feel utterly powerless within my own body? Some of these sensations I wanted to squash. I wanted to stomp the life out of those betraying organs, and build up walls and walls around myself. But here I am again, lost, under the thrall of the millions of nerve cells lining my gut.
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