"give me your best," i said to randy.
he chuckled. it was getting harder each time i saw him to tell if he was drunk, high, both, or neither.
"don't laugh at me."
"i'm not laughing at you, i'm laughing at the demand," randy replied.
"what's so funny about it?" i asked him.
he kept chuckling. "i'm not sure you really understand what 'my best' can do. are you positive this is what you want?" he pulled out a scary looking bottle and syringe from his case of remedies.
i nodded. "very positive."
"here ya go, pal. but just know i warned you. don't be generous with your dosages, becuase a little of this can go a long way. the list of side affects is a long one."
"and this is safe?" i asked, starting to regret my purchase.
"far from it. but don't worry, you'll be fine. this is quality stuff. and you have the work in you, the writing i mean. all this is going to do is bring it out to play."
"thanks randy. i owe you."
"oh, elio, the words. the words will be payment enough."
my fingers found my typewriter as the wonder-drug flowed through my veins. all of my memories with oliver ran down my spine, this boy, this project, filling me with inspiration and arousal.
i hated how hard i was.
everything he had ever said to me came rushing out of the corners of my brain and bounced off the keys, quotes and quotes of indescribable magic. page by page oliver was no longer a person, a physical being, but just a series of letters. i read them over and over, assembled them into lines and flipped them on their faces until they made just a little bit of sense to my empty skull.
i breathed him back in, and when i exhaled it was not only his words but also mine, our blood on the pages making love.
i spent all afternoon at the typewriter.
my trousers remained in the bathroom along with my dignity and while the wonder drug started to leave my body, i rearranged my work until i had a masterpiece.
this was the most beautiful thing i had ever written, and probably ever will write.
and if anyone remembers anything about me, or anything about my work, let it be this: beautiful work does not come from drugs or chemicals. beautiful work only comes from the lives of other beautiful people.
and a few stimulants can't hurt as well.
i ripped the pages out of the typewriter and followed the path from my dorm to his, the same path i took that morning when i flipped the world on it's axis. i had to see him now, before reality set in. before i remembered who i was and who he was and who he wasn't.
"i got it!" i said, breathless. "it's a first draft, so bear with me, but i think it has the capacity for a revelation in poetry.
"so do you live here now?"asked eric, turning in oliver's desk chair to face me.
"is oliver here?"
"he's out."
"with who?" i tried to get my breath back but it was impossible to form a sentence longer than three words with eric staring me down.
"some senior... handsome guy. his name was... charlie? he's a writer. athlete too."
"do you know where i could find him?" i was clutching my papers so tight i thought the words were going to be crumbled to particles just like the rest of me felt.
"no... but, elio? a word of advice: don't go looking. you know oliver... always wanting to start fresh. he's probably onto a different revolution by now. with a different revolutionary."
"get out," i said. i wasn't going to do this with with him. if i could convince eric i was wrong, than i could convince myself he wasn't right. "get. out."
"alright. later," eric said, slapping the doorframe, and for once, disappearing.
i dropped onto oliver's bed. how could i have let him slip away so soon?
i let my head fall onto his pillow and i buried myself in his smell. the only thing keeping oliver from leaving was the poem, the revolution, the words. me. not me, not me, just the idea of me. just a blank canvas for him to paint and hang up, then tear apart like a finished puzzle. i wasn't going to be a hobby for him.
i had grown my roots in this apartment, in the revolution, in him. he wasn't going to dig me up so easily.
"elio. elio?"
i rolled over to see oliver standing above me. the sun had set. i fell asleep on his bed.
"back from your date with charles?" i asked him.
"shut up," he said. "so you and eric are both moving in here?"
"shut up," i replied. what i wanted to say was, "no. just me."
oliver's gaze drifted to the poem on his bedside table. "what's that?" he asked.
"nothing. i should go," i said, sitting up.
"it's late. just stay."
i melted to his command. i let him climb in beside me, not touching me, not facing me, just existing in the same space as i was. i wanted us to never leave that bed.
"are you ditching me for charlie?" i asked. i instantly regretted it.
"he's joining the team. he's a real writer."
"and i'm not?" i asked, still not looking at him.
"goodnight, elio," oliver said.
and with my name in his mouth, i was happy.