The judge of all Earth

“When I first met you I thought you simply weren’t aware of what you could do,” says Bryce’s friend Giancarlo, very matter-of-factly from across the table, the usual untapped potential-slash-diamond in the raw chatter. “Then I started paying attention in you and came to the conclusion you willingly downplay it.”

I don’t want to tell him he’s wrong and I don’t want to tell him he’s right but above all I do want to tell him— but can’t— of what happens when things are not held back and ripple outwards, unrestrained, over other people’s lives. I do want to tell him— but can’t— of Cybill, of the apple, of the aggravating consequences, stringencies— I want, almost need to explain to Giancarlo all the gory details and point out the exact moment in time in which you realize you’re playing in a fixed game out of which will only come no prizes but only pain and regret.

But I also want to tell Giancarlo that my skin is burning searing-white-hot and she’s scorching in her own sheets at night herself despite her arrangements and that there’s no guilt involved when something feels so right: But also that if a given line in the sand is crossed and a genie pops out of the bottle then buddy, there is no going back to the old buddy system, come tomorrow, come next week, come what might.

Flesh, my friend? Flesh is a mean, mean mistress.
Know that much.