Deep Romance

Timehop reminded me that five years ago Colt gave me the key to his house inside a resealed Perrier bottle.  It was hanging perfectly from the cap by fishing wire;  The line where the glass cutter had cut the bottle in half was glued back together with glass glue.

I remember I stared at the bottle not quite sure what I'd been given.  The longer I stared the more this feeling welled up inside my chest.  I couldn't name it, and even all these years later I can only barely touch on it.  It was as if Colt understood something about me that I didn't even completely understand.  It felt like we'd been dropped into a painting.

The only way to get the key out was to smash the bottle.

Back then, Colt was full of romance and his stories were always laced with this kind of Tim Burton-esque beauty.  He talked about deep forests and small puddles that pooled at tree roots - of rings on strings.

Back then the only things I talked about was wanting to fight.  I wanted to put my fist against someone's flesh.  I wanted to feel someone pulling my hair. I wanted him to teach me how to use the right tools, how to get wasted enough to not care how it felt to be hit and to hit.  My father was fresh off his death bed and my soul was a strange type of raw.

We were both talking about escape.  Different kinds of escape.

"Just smash it?"
"But you went through all this trouble! You did all this work!"

So, smiling, I took the bottle in both hands and slammed it down.  It didn't shatter into pieces, it split into clean shards.  I navigated these and fished out the key with minor cuts.

A week later, I got rid of everything that couldn't fit in his closet and moved in.

All these years later, the picture of the green bottle with it's floating key invokes the same feelings.  Even if we are farther apart in some ways and closer in others, I know that at the beginning he knew who I was and chose me.  I knew who he was and chose him.  Deep romance.


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