Holding onto what I never had.

I had a dream last night about a man I know. He’s someone who’s played a somewhat peripheral role in my DC life, with a few turns as a guest star in particularly drunk episodes. When I recalled the dream this morning, of course, I began to think about him. And I realized that I think of him very fondly. He’s … well, he’s somehow made it into a corner of my mind in which I want only to keep him safe and happy and apart from everything else.

We’ve never been intimate, save one terribly ill-advised kiss that doesn’t really count. I’ve managed to embarrass myself in front of him more than once. But in a very strange, innocent way, he makes my heart sad. Just knowing that he’s there and I’m here and we’ve never been together and never will be leaves me with the feeling that the Universe cries just a little for what might have been.

When I listen to sad songs alone, I often think of him. When I conjure an image of What I Want, so many of the aspects and features are his. When I think about my more foolhardy ventures, he comes to mind with a twisted smile and a biting of the lower lip. I lock him out of my mind at other, more vulnerable, more self-involved moments. And yet, he’s always hovering, always possible, but just beyond the pale.

I know it’s not the same for him. I know the times we’ve shared have been very different for him: less personal, less fraught with desperation, less haunting. But there are times that he says or does something that makes me wonder, that makes me think he’s trying to say something, that at least sometimes he thinks of me over a glass of wine, that at least I was a possibility, if an ill-conceived one.

But perhaps not.

It’s 2 am and my mother is drunk.

So is my stepfather and so is The Chef.

Why are they all drunk? Because they’ve been drinking together all night.

I went to a wedding this weekend and it just so happened that my parents were also traveling and were able to drop me at home from the airport. Mom was complaining about having to work tomorrow (Tomorrow being Monday, which is now today and has been for more than two hours.). When they dropped me off, it was about 7, meaning they wouldn’t get home until 8 pm.

Apparently, at 8, or whenever they got home, they decided not to stay home, but to go see The Chef for some dinner. He might as well cook for them, since he’s doing it for everyone else. At 11 pm, two hours after quittin’ time, The Chef told me that they were there, leaving soon, and he would call me when he got home.

THREE HOURS later, I finally call the restaurant and he slurs a hello.

“What the … so you’re alive?” I ask.

“What? Sure. I mean, yes. Yes, I’m alive.”

“Good, so nobody’s dead or pulled over for DUI or at the hospital or something like that?”

“No.”

“Are my parents there?”

“No, they left about five minutes ago.”

“And were they as drunk as you?”

“Aaaahmnnoooderunk.”

“WHAT?”

“I sshhhaid I’m not drrrrrunk.”

“Oh, you’re just slurring for fun these days? Well, make sure to do it for the Troopers, they love that shit.”

“Are you mad? You’re mad. Hwhyooomard?”

“Because you said you would call me three hours ago. Because you told me you were with my parents at 11 and now it’s two and you have an early tee time and my mother has work in the morning and…”

“Lo’s not going to work tomorrow,” The Chef giggles.

After procuring promises that he would drive home very carefully, I called my mother’s house. Eight times. Finally, she picked up.

“Heeeeello?”

“Mom?”

“Molly? Ooohiehooooneeyhooowerooo?”

“Holy shit, you’re all drunk!”

“Ahmnoderunk.”

“Oh, whatever, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Wha? No, weecahtaknoe.”

“No, we can’t. I can talk now. You can’t even say, ‘We can talk now.’”

“Thas none of your bizzznuss.”

“Good night, Mom.”

You know what’s really hard to explain? It’s really hard to explain to drunk people why you’re so concerned and how there’s a big difference between 11 pm and 2 am and that when you can’t reach three people who were all supposed to be together, you get worried.

And another thing … I’m not sure I want The Chef and my parents hanging out and getting drunk and talking for hours if I’m not there. I think that’s a little strange. And I know that they knew him first, but not under these terms and it’s just a little crazy-making to think that your mom might get drunk and tell The Chef all the things you’ve told her about him. ‘Cause she’s chatty when she’s drunk. And not very discreet. And maybe once or twice she’s even encouraged you to hook up with people after several glasses of Chardonnay. Which is what she was drinking tonight. Oh, the horror.

They’re all grounded.