2005-05-06

The Moment

Monday morning was quiet in English Lit. class. I turned around and Pierce wasn't there, and I thought it odd because he's always there. Lindsey wasn't there either, but I didn't make anything else of it. Pierce just wasn't there.

And even going to Calculus I kept wondering why he wasn't there, so I figured that it was because of the "ragingly" wild party he'd had the previous night. And I assumed that he was at home, under the darkness of his curtains, crouched up in sleep. But Pierce wouldn't do that, would he?

He's been changing for some time, and as a friend...I've noticed it. Pierce enjoys and idolizes Rachmaninoff--the "Russian Heaviness" threaded into composition. He enjoys and savors the passion that is Sergei Rachmaninoff.

We've always had that argument:

"You've not even made the attempt to like or understand Chopin!" I said once.

"I do know what you're talking about, but he's pretty...plain, if you ask me. I hate that light, impressionistic style." That was his defense.

From that day on, I'd figured that Pierce was always straying toward the Russians. He'd never idolize Chopin in the same manner that I do.

Moving on.

It was gray and my AP Calculus test was on the following day, so I just decided to relax that night. So I'm at home actually listening to Rachamninoff and decide to call him--just to chat. My cell phone's got him on speed-dial and I'm searching around for his name and mark "dial" and Pierce answers in this lighthearted, self-satisfied voice that I'm slightly surprised...but not wholly.

"Libet!" He shouts. Given, he doesn't explode my ear drums. But it's a good shout. It's a happy and jolly-like shout.

"Pierce! Where were you today?"

"Lindsey and I went to the beach."

Not that I thought much of this. We do this all the time: going out for breakfast, going out to string quartets, etc.

I mean, it's not strange, and certainly trivial enough to deter me from instigating the matter any further. Why waste my time? Instead, I invited Pierce for tea, since he was alone and his parents out of town. He brought his music scores with him, mumbling something on the phone regarding structure.

**

I get in his car and he's playing Bartok. My heart beats faster--I love Bartok. It has already been established that Pierce has superior music taste--obviously, he's my friend. The sun's setting with the watery streak of orange lacerating the gray horizon. I look out at it and feel somewhat saddenned. I think he noticed because he asked what was wrong, in a warm and caring sort of way, and I just shrugged and told him it was the same old malady of 'being in love', and he smiled and nodded and perhaps said something along the lines of, "I understand," chuckling, and kept his focus on the already-gray road.

"So how are you?" I asked, just to make conversation--not to get anything else out.

"It's weird--I've been great."

"Why weird?"

"I dunno. Things are just...not precisely how I'd expect--new things, you know...but they're not horrible either."

I try and talk but I have absolutely no friggin' idea what in the Hell he's referring to, so I'll just pretend as if I comprehend every single word that's just come out of his mouth--I do it to Ben all the time when he gets into one of his 'support Europe/I'm such a liberal' bullshit lecture.

We stop at the place. It's now night time and spring. A few weeks back, I used to fancy saying "April is the cruellest month..." and it is--I've never been so damned miserable, and Pierce never so goddamned happy. But that really doesn't matter much. The orange blossoms are in bloom. You can smell them all day and their sweet scent envelope the senses--my childhood consisted of that beautiful scent. But now, smelling orange blossoms brings a strange mixture of desire, longing, and the future, whatever that entails.

We sit at a small, round table after running into Katherine with the dark-red hair and lilac-colored dress.

"Is that Katherine?" Pierce says aloud, and he gets her attention, and we end up sitting with her while she drinks her latte and we our Earl Greys.

Pierce stares out into the velvety night--the darkness cut open by blaring, busy lights, and candles of restaurants, and the orange hue glow of heaving cigarrettes. The smoke that creeps out of nicotine-stained lips and the silence only fills in white-spaces left by distant carhorns, chatter, nicotine-infused laughter, clicking of tea mugs and God knows what else.

But damn it, I love this night! It's an air you can taste, and air that Rochester or any other place up north simply won't have. It's a place where summer memories were made, and we kind of get sentimental after Kat tells us about her roommate's 53 year-old lover.

"So how long have they been lovers?" Pierce asks, casually, crossing one of his legs in a very gentleman-like manner.

I blank out because the night is so fucking impacting! I text my boyfriend just to tell him:

Babe. I'll get back to you. I'm playing hackey-sack with Ross.

Whatever. I didn't mean to send it to you anyway, my darling Alastair!

God it's a beautiful night and Kat's reading "Siddharta" by Hesse, which we want to read because Velma (Jenny) doesn't like it and she generally likes the things she reads.

So Kat leaves because, "I have to finish reading The Stranger, guys...I'm on the teacher's shit-list right now." She explains.

Pierce and I are left alone, and he starts showing me the sonata he just wrote, and we begin to get into a conversation regarding the structure. I love this pure music analysis. Things are meant to be analyzed (I don't want to hear it, goddamnit!) and we're going through. So I realized that making music and analyzing it is exactly like doing a literature timed, analysis writing. Pierce and I are both formalists.

But as the tea cups empty and we order more, the mood gets heavier and we start to talk: about stuff. My relationship and the fact that I'm love.

"It's stupid, isn't it?" I ask, staring into the liquid.

"No. I know you, and I know that you take these things seriously. I will regard your feelings as genuine--always."

I feel like hugging and kissing him when he said that--it really helped.

"Thanks."

He sighs. Not a romantic, arbitrary sigh. There was something behind it, and I sensed it.

"What's wrong?"

It started that way: me asking what was wrong and him confessing that he's infatuated. No, he won't call it an "infatuation" because they're idiotic, according to him. This is bigger--it's enriched him, spiritually. He's falling for Lindsey and I knew it all along.

And this is the reason why Pierce has been composing such Chopinesque music--he's on the brink of falling in love and he's going through some artistic, self-rennaissance, and someone strike me with a bolt of lightning if I should disturb.

And that's the way it is. And there's nothing to this, really...it's just strengthened the friendship.

At the end of the night, we shook hands and he said "thanks" and I nodded and said, "No problem." That's the way things should be--it's the way things were meant to be: Pierce and I have officially had a "moment".

aeka at 9:13 p.m.