He was the softest, most tender person I’d ever met. Every touch, every conversation, every sigh of pleasure was a salve.
He rode into my life on a large adult sized shiny pink tricycle. He was wearing a matching pink “fur” vest and ridiculously oversized top hat – pulling a trailer of little pink wrapped gifts. His nose was pierced with the largest gauge pink metal ring. He was mesmerizing. He broke the silence by offering me a small pink package. It seemed so magically out of place. It was six-year-old little girl birthday party perfect – out in the middle of the dusty dirty desert. I could not help myself but smile at the absurd beauty of it all.
“You’ll love it – once you wash with one of these soaps; you’ll be addicted – – long after all this is behind us…..” he said, theatrically motioning around him, and erupting in a generous and gorgeous laugh.
Packing up and returning to Chicago after a week in his almost constant embrace was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I spent afternoons watching the fall rains hit the glass in coffee shops daydreaming of being with Pink and getting lost in the distance and reality of where I was and wherever he was. I let myself fall back into routines. The playa became a distant precious dream. I walked into the office on a cold snowy December morning and the receptionist stopped me on my way to my desk.
“Oh – Smit, this came for you while you were out. a messenger delivered it.”, she motioned me over to look over her shoulder.
There, glistening, was a perfectly wrapped six-year-old shiny pink package. He’d found me.