Sublime

My boyfriend and I shared three days at the top of one of Houston’s most swank hotels. However what makes our weekend together extraordinary and blog worthy isn’t anything about the view from the top. My high went through and beyond the restraints of physicality to lead me to an epiphany so basic.

It ticked only seven when we’d gotten back to our room from Sal and Ron’s house. We got to our floor and then to our door. I stared at the door and waited for Paco who was actually waiting for me to use my copy of the swipe key. I opened my oversized bag and dug around aimlessly, convinced that the key would find its way to my fingers. I did this once and failed. So I pulled my hand out and waited for the key to fall into my palm instead. This did not work. I looked up at Paco and said something and then attempted to dig around aimlessly again only to fail once more. This was funny. I remember laughing a bit and thinking that this wasn’t the way things were supposed to work. Everything, including finding the swipe key, was supposed to work out in my favor because this was My High- a marijuana-induced state that catered to my needs and wants.

Sal had effortlessly become one of my favorites in the short time that I worked for this nameless company. She got laid off before Paco and I and I dearly missed hearing her jingling set of prison warden keys as she’d go downstairs for a smoke. In the wake of Hurricane Ike, Paco and I decided we’d have Ihop and pay a visit to Sal before the storm set in. She was very open about her love for the green, and funnily this expanded my love of her even more. So I was more than elated to hear from Paco that we’d visit her and her husband this weekend.

Sal introduced me to Ron, her “husbear”. They were so cute together I could’ve cried.

We made it back to our hotel room and Paco told me he was going to shower. I told him I was going to call my sister. The phone rang three times and my sister picked up. I asked about her party. She turned sixteen Thursday and had orchestrated a small get together. She said it was great and they were watching Pineapple Express. She asked if I wanted to speak to my mother. I wavered between yes and no, but because this was My High, I said yes because I knew nothing could go wrong.

Her voice was so genuine and real. Even though it was a phone call, I equated the love I heard through the receiver with the unconditional love and acceptance I’d absorbed at Sal and Ron’s household. My voice got weak as she told me, “Okay doopie, I’ll talk to you later.” Doopie is a word I made up. It’s just an expression of affection. I hung up and wept quietly, I thought.

After hanging up, I thought a lot. “My mother probably knows about Paco or has suspicion, but she trusts me. This is why she chooses to be passive with me. She’s put choice into my hands. I may not be ready to tell her about him and she may not be ready to hear about him now. But the conflict about the relationship of thought and speech interaction I had earlier today showed me there was a time and place for everything ever said or done in my life and in relation to the life of others. When she does know about him, she may have trouble accepting him, but it will be okay because she might accept him later, and if not-it still is what it is- me and reality. But no matter how hard it is, everything will be great.”

Seconds after having become overcome with emotion and gasping for air, a naked and soaked Paco rushed out of the bathroom demanding what was wrong. I shook my head and cried even more at his presence. The care and concern he had for me was so selfless and so true.

The next day Paco and I woke and went to lunch at this place called Panda Garden. He said the chicken was to die for. I washed this comment over because I never plan on getting chicken when going out to eat.

THE CHICKEN WAS UNBELIEVABLE! It was like...an orgasm in my mouth. I'm never one to rave about anything, especially chicken, but after tasting it I considered Paco's description a complete understatement of this post-coital love fest. So every-fucking-body, if you ever are fortunate enough to come to Houston, take your ordinary chicken eating ass to Panda Garden and be ready to swallow the sweetest meat you will ever eat.

As I've learned from past experience, with something incredibly wonderful comes something to dread and to observe with misery. Paco needed to go. We hugged and kissed a million times over. He made it to his car and opened the door and I demanded him to come back. He came back and hugged me close. After overcoming the lump in my throat I told him, "I hate you. Thanks a lot for making things so complicated. Putting things out of order. This is NOT MY HIGH!" He laughed uncomfortably and said we'd aim to do this at least once a month. "Stop laughing! This is so not funny right now. This really isn't my high at all! This is NOT MY HIGH!"

I finally let him go. I was hot with anger. He signed I love you through his car window. It took everything in me to not flick him off in return.

I was on the freeway when I decided to call him to ask about directions. "It would only make sense that I would take 290 West from here, right?" I knew where I was going, but I felt inclided to talk to him and to diffuse my anger. Right when I asked him that I drove over paint that read "290 WEST". Everything, I noticed, still went along with my thoughts. This reinforced the thoughts that I had after getting off the phone with my mom. Everything said and done has a place. Everything that will be said or will be done will have a place. Everything will be great no matter how hard it gets. This was still My High.