It was a warm spring afternoon when I stood on the Golden Gate Bridge, staring out across the bay at the crisp blue water which reminded me so much of his eyes--the eyes that I had tried in vain to paint so many times.
I think back to why we first came to San Francisco. In our small hometown in Iowa, we were the only ones not afraid to speak our minds. Alex was a musician and once performed a song he had written about his father abusing his mother at the school talent show. I was a painter. I painted grotesque scenes, half-human, half-animals, emotional faces, and I deserved recognition for my work. My counselor didn't see it that way. He, and the rest of the PTA thought the images were "psychologically disturbing."
In fact, that's how Alex and I met. We were both guest stars of a PTA meeting. The moms of the school didn't want their children to go to school with us for fear that their kids' minds might be warped, like creativity was a communicable disease. I remember he was all I could look at the entire time. There he was, Alex Avery. He was a heart-throb. Every girl in school thought so, but they would never admit it out loud. He was the tortured bad boy that every girl wanted a piece of. I couldn't blame them. There he sat, with his icy blue eyes, running his hands through his chocolate brown hair in annoyance, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down when he would occasionally voice his opinion in the meeting. I knew I could never have him, so I didn't even try.
But one night, there he was, outside my window. Our's was a small town where everyone knew where everyone else lived, who your parents were, what they did for a living, and how much they made. I knew his father was a professional drunk, and his mother was a nurse at the hospital. That night, we ran away. We got in his Beamer and drove all night until sunrise when we cleared the hills.
Our romance bloomed over the next few months. We bought a studio apartment downtown. I painted and earned a decent living that way (despite what my counselor would have told me), and Alex got a couple of gigs in town. He was a visionary. Everyone could tell he was going far. So it hurt even more when the doctors gave him the diagnosis.
"Cancer." It was such a cold word. Especially paired with, "There's nothing we can do." It got to a point where he couldn't sing anymore, and then, slowly, his fingers became too weak to play. The music died shortly before he did. I stayed with him all that day, and just before he went, he looked at me, and the clouds in his eyes cleared for a moment. He kissed me one last time, closed his eyes, and the breath sighed out of him.
The hospital released his personal effects to me. For a long time, I slept with his jacket under my head. Then one day, I found a velvet box in the inside pocket.
I think back to why we first came to San Francisco. In our small hometown in Iowa, we were the only ones not afraid to speak our minds. Alex was a musician and once performed a song he had written about his father abusing his mother at the school talent show. I was a painter. I painted grotesque scenes, half-human, half-animals, emotional faces, and I deserved recognition for my work. My counselor didn't see it that way. He, and the rest of the PTA thought the images were "psychologically disturbing."
In fact, that's how Alex and I met. We were both guest stars of a PTA meeting. The moms of the school didn't want their children to go to school with us for fear that their kids' minds might be warped, like creativity was a communicable disease. I remember he was all I could look at the entire time. There he was, Alex Avery. He was a heart-throb. Every girl in school thought so, but they would never admit it out loud. He was the tortured bad boy that every girl wanted a piece of. I couldn't blame them. There he sat, with his icy blue eyes, running his hands through his chocolate brown hair in annoyance, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down when he would occasionally voice his opinion in the meeting. I knew I could never have him, so I didn't even try.
But one night, there he was, outside my window. Our's was a small town where everyone knew where everyone else lived, who your parents were, what they did for a living, and how much they made. I knew his father was a professional drunk, and his mother was a nurse at the hospital. That night, we ran away. We got in his Beamer and drove all night until sunrise when we cleared the hills.
Our romance bloomed over the next few months. We bought a studio apartment downtown. I painted and earned a decent living that way (despite what my counselor would have told me), and Alex got a couple of gigs in town. He was a visionary. Everyone could tell he was going far. So it hurt even more when the doctors gave him the diagnosis.
"Cancer." It was such a cold word. Especially paired with, "There's nothing we can do." It got to a point where he couldn't sing anymore, and then, slowly, his fingers became too weak to play. The music died shortly before he did. I stayed with him all that day, and just before he went, he looked at me, and the clouds in his eyes cleared for a moment. He kissed me one last time, closed his eyes, and the breath sighed out of him.
The hospital released his personal effects to me. For a long time, I slept with his jacket under my head. Then one day, I found a velvet box in the inside pocket.
