Flaw Salad

I’ve imagined for 27 years what it might be like to be in this very moment. (That’s an exaggeration, of course—one of those things you say because it sounds romantic and reveals some trivia as inconsequential as your age but fails to account for the fact that as a child at age 6 or 8 or 11, you most certainly weren’t thinking the sorts of thoughts that compel you to write such absurd and romanticized tripe.)

I’m standing at the edge, the edgiest edge, and I’ve edged as close as I can. I’m teetering now, the deep, deep ocean waiting to swallow me whole. I try to take comfort in the safety of the harness around me. I try to summon the courage to jump. And I stand here, edged to the breaking point.

You once told me that to fall is easy, to jump is a habit, to surrender is beautiful. I agreed with you then. You played with my fingers under the edge of the bar, where our knees touched and electricity flowed between us. I felt so eager, then, to jump into you. My heart leapt ahead, and I greedily drank the moment as I greedily drank my whiskey.

You tasted so good that night. You often tasted great, like whiskey and cigarettes, but never so good as that night. You were sweet and new and tender, and I could feel every ounce of control fly from me as you pressed your tongue against mine. The hair on the back of your neck, your hand on my shoulder, the recklessness of our display.

Oh, I jumped then. In that moment, I barreled into the unknown with unmatched, unwarranted, unwise audacity. You smelled so damn good.

What I didn’t understand then, and what I know now for the very first time, is that to jump is a risk. It’s scary. It’s life-threatening. It’s dangerous.

How did I never know that before?

I look over the edge, and I creep millimeters closer. Surely my balance will give way momentarily. This will happen without my permission. It will overtake me. The fall always overtakes me.

Another lie I tell myself. I’ve never once been overtaken so much as I’ve allowed myself to fall. With you, I had no idea. I allowed myself to believe in consumption, in an absence of will. You took me, and I couldn’t help myself. It was too powerful to fight. That’s what I told myself.