I apres,                       and after,
tombats a terra                fallen on the ground
a cualsevol manera,            in whatever way,
comprenem que soms uns barbars we understand we're barbarians
I que aixo no deu ser          and that shouldn't be.
      fragment of 'els amants' by vincent estelles
 

Maybe He's Canadian, 12:  Running.

I lie in bed for a while after Xander's left for work.   Slowly I get up
again, wake up again actually, because I'm pretty sure I fell back asleep,
pretty sure but not positive, except that by the clock it's after ten, and
he left at eight or so, same as yesterday, and the day before, working man's
gotta do what a man's gotta do.

I sit on the edge of the bed for just a moment, and look around at the
clothes strewn randomly on the floor.  Some from last night, and I grin as I
remembered taking those off, and some, well, no point in picking them up
until you're ready to do something with them, like laundry.

Now that I don't have Walsh-like inspections of my quarters, I'm sort of
letting things slide, not like Riley, who still wakes up at regulation hour,
does the regulation push-ups, and keeps his room in perfect regulation
order.  I just gotta laugh at the Iowa boy, sometimes.

I pull on my running stuff, left to dry out on the closet door, which now
gets left open so it can double as a sort of clothes line, shorts hanging on
the outside door knob, jock on the inside one, tank top slung over the top
of the door.  I slowly pull them on.  "Clean socks."  I think, still waking
up, "I want clean socks,"  just making the next task clear to myself.  I go
over to the drawers and open the top one and pull out a pair of white socks,
and go back to the bed, bending and scooping up my running shoes from where
I kicked them across the floor yesterday, I sit on the bed and pull on socks
and shoes.

I stand and start to stretch.  Slowly, easily.  Not pushing now, I'll push
later. I glance out the window.  Sunshine.  It looks nice, I grab my spare
key, hung on an old dog-tag chain, and slip it over my head, and pull the
door locked as I head out of Lowell House and onto the quad, jog over to my
favorite tree and finish the stretching.

I start to run, really easy at first, getting used to it again, checking my
watch for the start time.  Feeling some soreness in places where I wasn't
sore yesterday, mainly my hamstrings.  I must have overstretched them last
night' I think analytically, then find myself wearing a slightly evil grin,
remembering exactly how they got overstretched.

I try to push myself a bit, hitting full cruising speed as I head on the
first leg of the usual mid-distance run, campus to park, through the park,
back down to the other side of campus, and then all the way cross campus and
back home, last 2 blocks for cool down.  All pretty much on automatic pilot
by now.

My mind clears, thinking of nothing but the running, but one thought
intrudes: I'm meeting my lover tonight for coffee.  I gotta grin as that
thought sinks in.  OK, I've always wanted to be able to say that.  And OK,
we've only been 'lovers' for what, four days, nine and one half hours -- I
chuckle at myself as I realized I realize I am actually counting the hours
since I first touched Xander, and Xander first touched me.   My lover.   I
shake my head as I keep running, knowing I've got this kinda stupid smile on
my face.  Damn I like the sound of that word, 'lover'.   Damn, I've wanted
that for so long.  And, maybe, just maybe, now I've got it.

I hit the park, running on the path through the heavily wooded area, aware
that there are other runners, but for the first time since I've been running
this route, I'm not checking out the other guys.  Not  trying not to, just
not doing it.   Only caring about what one guy looks like.

OK, Graham, I tell myself, this is your first time at this, not the sex
part, lots of experience with that, but with the actualy knowing the other
guy part.  Is this how lovers are supposed to be?   In my head, I'm asking
Xander, is this how you want it to be?
 
 
 

Because there can't be too many couples out there like us,  just so into it
and each other that once we start, something just takes over and we keep
going like a couple of demons, on the floor, across the desk, over the
chair, where ever, practically throwing each other around, getting ordering
around, pushing each other hard.

It hits me all over again as I remember you pulling off your clothes that
first time.  Man, it feels like years have gone by, and a million things
have happened since I touched you that time and it was like this powerful
force suddenly grabbed me and pushed me to you and we rolled frantically on
the floor between the kissing and the holding each other tight.

Is that how it's supposed to be?  OK, it was *hot*.  But, is that how it's
supposed to be with a lover?  Isn't being in love supposed to mean spending
some of the evening together in just this really nice comfortable way, just
the two of us cuddled up, complementing each other, telling each other how
nice this all is?

Cause the calm thing just doesn't happen.  I see you and it just jolts awake
inside me, and it just hits me and it's like being swept up in this
hurricane that picks me up and throws me, throws both of us to the ground,
slams us together, and tosses us around, sending us rolling across the
floor.

I really had always thought I wanted it to be sort of nicer, with some
romantic music on the stereo playing softly, just sitting next to you,
holding you, and slowly and gently kissing you, first your neck, and later
just kind of nonchalantly licking your ear.

But it always ends up being pretty brutal.  Yeah, we both know what a total
bitch life can be, because you never know who's gonna be the next one to get
knocked around, or hurt, . or buy it.  I know you know that feeling, 'cause
I've seen it in you eyes.  And the worst thing that can happen, seeing a
buddy get taken out.  You've been there, too.  And I know we're both always
getting ordered around, and pushed around, and caught up in the middle of
things we don't understand, and don't wanna understand, . and *all* I really
want between those times is just a few kisses and to get held really tight.

Fuck!  Tell me what am I supposed to do!  OK, I know this isn't how love's
supposed to be.   It's not how I always pictured it.  But I've *never* done
any of that mushy romantic stuff.   Shit, there's a lot of stuff I've never
really gotten, never really understood, like the lyrics to those sweet 'ooh,
I love you, boy' songs, or all those love poems we had to memorize in High
School.

But afterwards, there's that one moment when we're lying on the floor,
bodies contorted into whatever position we ended up in, just looking at each
other:   panting, spent, exhausted, unable to talk, barely able to crawl
into bed and just fall asleep.  At that moment, I look at you and see that
loopy, sheepish, embarassed half-grin, and I *know* that you're thinking the
same thing as me:  that we're acting like a couple of animals, and it really
shouldn't be like this.  That this isn't the way love's supposed to be.
That this isn't how either of us ever pictured how being with a lover was
gonna be.

I know that at that moment, you're thinking you want to be nicer to me, and
I'm thinking I need to be gentler with you.  And we both know that we're
both thinking that, and we both silently promise ourselves that we're gonna
go easier on each other the next time, and I really believe that I really am
... until the next time comes and I see you pulling off your clothes .

I hit the cool down part of the home stretch, breaking the rhythm and
slowing down to a walk, hands on hips, head slightly bowed, breathing hard,
and I think that, yeah, they're can't be too many couples out there like us.
  I grin.  Most guys couldn't take it.
 

<< Stay tuned for part 13, In which Graham and Xander get together for their
first date, and something completely unforseen happens!; same Graham-Time!
Same Graham-Channel!>>

=======================
end note:

Because our lives are a constant fight,
because they'll barely even let us say
that we are who we are,
it'd be a sin if our poems were just pretty ornaments.

Fuck the poems created as a cultural luxury by bystanders
who, washing their hands of us, explain us away and evade us.
Fuck the poems of those who don't take sides.
Take sides and get dirty.

Gabriel Celaya    from 'la poesia es una arma cargada de futuro'
otsoko's translation from the Spanish. (roughly, 'poetry is a loaded gun')