I couldn’t sleep last night. Every drunk yelling under the window finally slipped away by four am and left the street silent. My lover was deep in slumber. I curled up against his back and woke him up. “Jon, tell me a story,” I said. “You know, a really personal story.” It’s a little joke between us that if he talks to me in intimate, sonorous tones, I will fall into a dead sleep. The more secret the story, the sooner I’ll drift off. I thought of a question to get him started. “When you were a little boy, what was the first time you can remember getting hurt?” Jon remembered a spill. He took a fall in the public commons of a housing project in State College, Pennsylvania. He was running tripped and scraped his knee on the edge of a slate staircase. He remembered the blood pouring out of his knee, the shock of all that red ink. His mother came running out, bundled him up, wiped his tears. I’ve always wanted to be bundled like that. [download]
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