Tonight’s the night. You swear it is. You drink just enough and smoke just enough to charm the pulsating convulsions of the room into submission, just long enough to make your way to her. You stand just at the edge to her gravitational pull, telling one of your best anecdotes to whoever, just loud enough so that you know she hears.
When she laughs at the part you know to tell straight for comedic effect, you do not look to her. You take a deeper hit and another sip, then you decide it’s time to step up to the stereo because you are buzzing and in tune with the mood of all creation and the room’s crying to be filled with your beautiful dark twisted fantasy. This is your signature move. You always know when the time has come and the party’s drunk enough no one’s going to mind.
You check the corner, and there she stands moving as the full expression of the beat, gripping something acrid while radiating something sweet. It’s almost time to make the approach. You look to your cup and realize you’re running near empty, so you turn to the kitchen to get a handle on things. In the kitchen you fortify your spirit and look out from the doorway into the congregation.
You feel that you belong, feel that you are wanted, feel that you are happy. You look and you look until you are trapped in the middle distance, and in the soft focus you are taken over by the warmth. You see life in the belly. Adam in those early days, guided by an unconditioned love. Adam eating figs near the bank of the stream, washing the sticky remnants of the pith from his hands.
You see Adam growing lonely, see Adam lash out, see Adam beg. You see Adam dream. You see Eve come to be. You see Adam see Eve. You see Adam keep his distance and the unsteadiness in his eyes. You see Adam summon up his courage. You see Adam make small talk. You see Eve listen politely. You see that Adam loves her. You see that Eve does not feel the same. You see Eve and Adam sit in silence beneath the fig tree. You see their hands clasp one another’s. And so you see the shape of things to come.
You let her sit on the brightly tiled floor. You let her scream out. You let her curse you. You let the faucet overflow. You let the crown molding crumble. You let the air outside be too thick to breathe. You let the things you say when you are brave and drunk be the things you do when you are frozen and too afraid to think. You let the neighbors draw their curtains while peeking through the sides.
You let the river’s clay swallow your feet. You let the current take you in. You let your limbs drift like wood. You let your body become worthy and flow out to sea. You let no corner of your bed be left unexplored. You let no bad feeling go unpunished. You let no bad thought go unfed. You let beauty mark near the temple and the rubicund halo’s strands splay out as the head is turned on its side. You let yourself not look in the eyes. You let her love you.
The party drifts back into your focus and you see her before you—as the full expression. And even if tonight is not the night, you are still going out there, contorting and writhing with the social tide because transfiguration is going to come. So for now, relinquish and rejoice in your shortcomings; they are many and they are splendid.