I met Beau through “the scene”–which made the city feel small. Everyone knew everyone, enmeshing casually, gender-lessly– in clubs, alleys, in piles of melted bodies on e. What we knew of each other was little more than myspace profiles. We were our myspace profiles walking around at parties. You didn’t penetrate that.

But Beau became real. He had become a best friend–hanging out at my apartment or going out dancing with my group of girl-friends then crashing at one of our places–his body on the couch curled upside down like a snake.

But then late,  in a drunk cab his hands were running through my hair, twisted and knotted in my lap. The guy who goes from “just friend” to more is especially confusing when you are single– our guard is down. We’ve already put you in the platonic box…now we’ve got to reassess?

You can fuck your friends. Mostly as the star guest in a threesome or during 4 a.m. naked-twister. It’s knowing what you want out of it, being honest as that shifts.

I don’t remember much–being in his bed, the shadow of drunk sex. The next morning we woke up with the high, the whimsy of each other’s bodies. Beau grabbed his phone. “Stay still–I have to take your picture. I need to prove this happened.”

But this won’t change things, we said. We were still friends. But  sometimes at 4 a.m. I’d end up at his place. I was sitting on the floor, eating a  jumbo-slice of pizza. He crawled over then lifted my dress, nestling his face under the crinoline. This probably should have been one of those: what are we doing here moments. Instead I thought: Should I put down the slice of pizza? Can I eat a little more while he is under there– or would that be rude?

The nights turned into weekends: we drank PBR in the shower, he bought breakfasts and treasures from yard sales. It was that haze of summer where sunsets become stiflingly beautiful, somehow causing the days to melt silkily into one and other. But we were trying not to kiss, trying to not give into sex. Still friends! Acting as though we were trying the relationship on for size–”maybe someday!” Neither wanting to admit: this is it.

Sleeping with someone, again and again, you begin to fall for them. This is just chemistry. Lazing in bed is going through the motions of falling in love. It’s your brain releasing chemicals–your body buzzing on hormones. And if you are compatible–friends– it explodes.

We exchanged the dark pieces of ourselves, necessary in love. “I was 5 and my family was throwing a pool party, I left for a bit, to find my new kittens. I wandered into the garage. There was this awful smell…from the green truck. I got my Dad–he lifted the hood. Inside were the litter of  kittens, melted on the engine. ”  This was me.  Beau told me about having cancer as a teenager –how angry it made him. In the garden, laying on our bellies: “I see  the earth in  your eyes’.

But there were no real declarations. No commitments.  One night out, my ex was there. I left Beau to talk to him and  fell into dancing. The bar was closed and the crowd poured into the street, I was dizzy, my arm in the ex’s grip. Beau stepped in front of us, spikey. “Don’t go home with him”.

The ex grew acidic: “She can make up her own mind.” The crowd in skinny pants held cigarettes in their mouths a little too long. “You are just jealous because I’m a better DJ than you.” They were getting louder now. “You are so not a better DJ!” I spun and started to walk. I heard the first hit. “Oh my god, they are punching each other!” I didn’t turn back, I didn’t want to see.

In the myspace days,there was this feeling that we were all connected though this thing –this scene, these online connections. And in this we were all working towards some greater thing. Whatever this thing was–it ensured that we were okay. Not wanting to see when we weren’t.

It was as though Beau and I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to touch this thing we had, afraid it would break. But by not seeing, not talking about it–by protecting ourselves in the moment–we were shattering the real relationship we had.