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Liora [userpic]


December 4th, 2015 (07:12 pm)
current mood: Wistful

He still owes me a cookie.

Instead, he sent me his suicide note. Later, three framed photos he'd taken in art school. His fingerprints were still on them.


My second year of college, I moved into a room in a large Victorian house with 8 strangers. Waiting on the porch with another prospective roommate (Nathan) for the landlord (Aaron) to show us around, we were surprised by the door suddenly yanked wide.

A handsome man stepped out, dressed in a vest and tie, giggling and grinning, and asked us, "Well, what do you think?"

Nathan and I looked at each other. "Uh... about what?"

"Do I look ready to conduct a wedding?" He snickered, took a bike out of the house and peddled off.

I never met his friends, but one of the first things I learned about Scott was that he was unpredictable. He had filed an application online and headed out to officiate a wedding.


The rain was coming down in sheets, flowing down the steep street three inches deep. I'd measured it up to my ankle, splashed it, barefoot, up to my knee. The couches on the porch were infested with mice and probably fleas, so I watched the weather perched on the railing, leaning against a post. It was not comfortable, but it was beautiful.

Miley came out for a smoke. Scott came home from a date. We made comments on the rain, then they went inside. I was struck by melancholy, mesmerized by the roar of water falling, the hum and fizz and slide and rush - so I stayed, shivering, half in and half out of the downpour. Foolish and young, and perhaps a bit dramatic.

I startled when he wrapped a quilt around me. It was warm and light and smelled of him.

"Are you alright?"

I smiled, "Yes, thank you. Just thinking. You don't need to... Your blanket will get wet!"

He left me to my musings, and I stayed longer than I would have to justify his generosity. When I brought in his quilt, I discovered that it was his only bedding.


My mid-term paper on the history of the Celts was due the next day. Behind a stack of books, staring forlornly at a blinking cursor, I heard a tap at my second-story window.

"Mam mo offen ma mindow!?"

I struggled against the 100 year-old window, somewhat painted shut, to find Scott with his mouth around the stem of a wine glass. In his other hand was a bottle and another glass, and he hung on the fire escape by his elbows. I had trouble helping him in through my laughing, especially as the window only opened a foot tall.

I was 19, and that pear wine was the best I'd ever had. He stayed for a sip, declared it not to his taste and left me to my writing. With a sip here and there, my writing grew more fluid. At last, a rough draft complete in record time, I lifted the bottle for a victory toast... and found it empty.

Giggling my way down the stairs, I hunted for Scott to share my success. He was in his room with a woman, so I let them be.


We discussed philosophy and religion over laundry. He snuck me into his 80's night DJ session at a bar. We got bored one evening and jumped into an outdoor pool fully clothed. I ended up sleeping in the same bed as him multiple times on adventures, but only as friends. When I was molested, he held me as I cried and didn't pry. We wrote long emails to each other while he was stuck in the office, exchanged poetry and stories. I took him camping and sailing, hiking and biking. And at one point he saved my life (story to follow).