November 14, 2006

Signs

"It's no longer a waste of a day—
I learned how to spell my name in sign language!"
He said, eyes wide open, five drinks into the night.
Pointer and middle finger up and crossed;
Thumb and pinky extended, the other fingers down;
A fist with the thumb up and on the side;
Another fist, his thumb now underneath his first two fingers.

"Good!" I say, brushing my leg up against his,
Moving my right hand, open, from my mouth
To my open left hand. I smile and take another drink of my beer
As his knee brushes me and his shoe covers the laces of mine.
I tilt my head back to get the last few drops
And when my neck snaps up his eyes are waiting to meet mine.

"One more?" I clench both my hands like crab claws
And bring the two together, almost like they are kissing.
"How do you say Yes?" he asks, and I make a fist and nod it,
Explaining that it's like a head nodding yes. He makes a fist
And nods it, nodding his head at the same time.
I motion for the bartender and she refills our glasses.

Let’s see. What other words do I know?
I spread my fingers apart, bring them to my mouth,
Lick my middle finger quickly, but then bring it to my hairline
And run it through my hair to the crown. "What’s that?" he asks,
But I shake my head and say "Nevermind." I drink more.

What else? I make a peace sign with both hands, my thumbs
At the crux, turn them sideways, and bounce them up and down.
He makes a quizzical face and I lean in close, and whisper "fuck,"
Pretending that the dozens of other drunk patrons in this bar
Have never heard the word before. He opens his mouth in mock disbelief,
Then shakes his head jokingly. He sticks out his tongue in concentration,
Copying me sloppily as his elbow bumps the bar. I reach out, hold his wrists
And steady his beats, up and down. He’s giggling as much as I am.

I tap my fingers to my mouth, then move them to my cheek.
He asks what that one means, and the alcohol musters up my courage.
I lean in for a kiss, but as my lips near his he pulls away,
Making a peace sign and snapping his two fingers to the thumb.

No.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.