[War]

The truth is, it never happened. All the subtle touches and glances, the kisses that lasted for minutes, and miles in a classic, rumbling car with the intention of losing it in a lost parking lot to the view of a fading moon. Fiction. If a look was ever spared in my direction, it wasn’t from him. It was from some loser in a NorthFace jacket with a redhead fetish. The touch from a drunk with halitosis who thought my move for another screwdriver was a come-on. Kisses non-existent, other than a few fumbles at intimacy with a dim, but sexy skinhead, and a try or two with the sweet lead singer of a rising metal band. The kind of tries that barely clear second base. And forget about home, Ford ‘Stang or not.
It just didn’t work like that, and it doesn’t. He’s my best friend. I’ve told him that, a few times, while I stare at the scuffs on my steel-toes. And I’m his, I think. He talks to me, sometimes, and I guess that’s all that really counts in the end. The whispers of secrets in a smoke-laced drawl after dark. Or getting goose flesh from when he looks over my shoulder to examine the splash page I’m pouring my heart into. Having someone to sit within the silence of my own head because he’s reading about the promiscuous and volatile adventures of 007. A guy who not only finds it impressive that I know just about every song on the radio, but tests me about the who and the when. The only person I can manage to fall asleep with.
Someone I trust.
So, it did happen.
But, I. . .
It doesn’t count if it’s in my head.
Does it?