The first thing you said when I said I agreed with you that I’d rather see humans (including us) slaughtered, more than I’d rather see animals killed was, “Marry me now.” Our first date and you proposed. I said, “I do,” then we laughed. It was in a Chinese restaurant in Castro. We ordered tofu and vegetarian fried rice.
The first time I kissed you was at Church Street Station. I wish I’d remembered what you said that prompted me to lunge forward. I wish I had written it down somewhere. On a paper. On my palm. In my brain. In my heart. All I could remember was bending my knees and we kissed.
The first thing you said when I told you where I went to for my grad school was, “Sounds religious.” It was in an Indian restaurant in Castro. I said I wanted to jump on you. You said you wanted to fuck me right then and there. The place was empty except for us and a plate of samosas.
You’re bitter, you’re a Type-A, you don’t believe in organized religion, you’re shorter than I am, you have a long probing tongue, you hate Apple, and you talk dirty in bed. Perfection. I’ve always wanted to date a well-hung pilot with a soft spot for puppy and kitten videos.
“If only you were American,” you said. If only, I thought, as I sat sideways on your lap on your reclining chair at your house near Ocean Beach, your arms tight around me like a tourniquet. But I’m not, and one day I’ll have to fly back to my land, to my people. One day I’ll have to say goodbye and never see you again. One day all I’ll have are memories of you, of us, of the miles we walked, the foods we tasted, your hand that I held in mine, the time we both cried when we watched Pippin sang as Faramir rode out to defend Osgiliath, my head on your naked chest, and all the first-times with you.
I refuse to remember the last-times. I refuse to acknowledge their dormant existence.
“If only you were American.” If only, I thought. If only indeed.
This was written as an assignment for a class, before DOMA was ruled unconstitutional.