I knew then. Sitting in that dark room, lit only by the television, on that sagging couch in that cluttered room. Friend on the floor. Leaning against sagging couch. Passed out. Stoned. Friend's friend, soon to be my friend, or already my friend, somewhere else. Not in the room. In some other room. Maybe with some girl.
It had begun at a different house. More lit. Less cluttered. By objects and people both. By the amount of people and the amount of space within which the objects were dispersed. The quality of the objects.
The beginning, actually, was not at that house, but at another house, not remembered, not specific, not distinct or holding contrast to another house or room. Remembered only for a front lawn in the dark of the evening and lit only by a porch light. Two figures on the front lawn, also lit by the porch light, kissing. The friend's friend and the Hispanic girl who lived in the house behind the porch light. Something funny said by me and then spoken of, recounted, often, and then forgotten.
Then the car and the story and the more lit, less cluttered, more spacious house. A hallway. Outside of a room. The hallway and the room feeling removed from the soul of the home, which felt empty. The feeling that if someone arrived at the home it would take them hours to find this hallway and this room. The friend who would later lean passed out stoned against the sagging couch lost somewhere in the empty house with its empty soul.
The friend's friend and I unable to search for him. Too occupied by the enormity of the task at hand. The handing of a towel, not remembered. The car. The telling of the tale. Of the pushing. The pounding. I couldn't get it in her. I was trying like hell. Finally. But, man. The friend's friend emerging from the room flushed red and sweaty, in need of a towel. The resulting joke of my role as towel-boy. Relishing in that role. In having had a role. Making The Rounds becoming the official title of the evening.
These visits to the friend with the friend did not all occur during the summer before my freshman year in college. One of them did. The others did not. But each trip had the feeling of occurring during a summer before a freshman year in college. Embarkment. Realization. Cool air on a dark road with a window down. The feeling of dressing hastily. Without regard.
The events of any one trip can no longer be distinguished from any of the others. They are all one. Coffee in an old man's home in a neighborhood with a sky and a quiet and a disregard for the world unfathomable to me. Potential. Visits to homes seemingly never inhabited by adults. Attempts to bake potatoes.
I did know. As I sat there. On the sagging couch. I laughed at Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo. Laughed and laughed, and she watched me laugh. Kyle's Mom's a Bitch. Uncontrollable laughter. Her watching me and watching the laughter. Smiling. I did know, but I was not the type to know. I didn't have that confidence. Confidence to make moves. To make rounds. Her kiss was full. It left no room for anything else. I had been shaking. On the sagging couch. Once I knew. Once it became inevitable. The laughter, in part, had been to hide the shaking.
Now, lain across the sagging couch. Full kisses. The friend. Passed out. Stoned. Beneath us. Propped up with a thin smile. Someone else. Someone whom, the next day, I would find to be dynamic and unforgettable, passed out in a chair. Now forgotten. The friend's friend somewhere else. In another room. There had been a blonde. She was the reason for coming here. This was the last stop.
On the sagging couch. Full kisses. Hands up her shirt. Down her pants. These actions were calculated. For the car. The story. Did you fuck her? No, I just finger-banged her and played with her titties. This was as far as it could go. Things had been put in my hands. No further progress possible. My inability to see things through. To take initiative. My need to be led forward.
Later, I would imagine having pulled her into her bedroom. Or a bathroom. At the actual moment, though, I laid down. On the floor. On my back. Eyes closed. The dark room lit only by the TV. The TV now obsolete. The full kiss at the door. The awkward next day. The drive home with thoughts of infinite potential. She lay down next to me. On the floor. Several feet away. I could feel her eyes on me. Wondering. Pleading. Are you comfortable over there? I was. I truly was.