Tonight I'm sleeping on a futon in a spacious three bedroom home located in the northeast section of Portland, Oregon. This futon reminds me of the way that a dorm-style bed feels like, in my experience.
I recall working long hours in one of Boston's many illegal poker clubs and walking down to South Station after my shift. There I would catch a bus that would bring me to Manchester, New Hampshire, where my then girlfriend was attending art school. It would take the duration of Bedhead's "Transaction de Novo" album and few tracks off of Andrew Bird's "Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs" for me to arrive at the Manchester YMCA, where she rented a closet sized dorm room with a surprisingly spotless shared bathroom and a filthy communal kitchen. I remember the Hello Kitty sheets wrapped around the twin mattress placed snugly in the far right corner of the room. There were regularly stray art supplies sprinkled across the floor. Paints, pencils, paper, glitter, charcoal.
Most days, the room was either uncomfortably cold or absurdly warm. I didn't mind. I didn't mind sharing a bed hardly large enough for one person. I actually enjoyed it more than any other sized bed. The idea of being tightly wrapped up in the arms and legs of someone you love is a wonderfully safe and unnerving feeling. Knowing that, for those silent hours, our worlds would remain completely still and safe from any guilty thought or petty argument or room to grow apart was the most selfishly satisfying feeling I have ever experienced.
But, I regret to inform that waking up is inevitable.
