I’ve moved into Galahad’s room. Or I guess I should say Jay’s room, since he asked me to call him by his real name. I think I’ll keep calling him Galahad in public, though, since using his real name in private makes me feel special.
We slept half the day, but everyone was so tired from the fight, the funeral and everything else that only Doc, Rochelle, and David seem to have missed us. No one knows where we were, but I feel like everyone knows what we were up to. It’s enough to make me wonder if it’s written on my face that I’m no longer a virgin. But the more likely clue is the way I can’t keep my hands off him. I’m acting very silly and what’s worse is I don’t care. The whole day has been wrapped in a golden fog that blurs the edges of things and makes me love everyone.
Craziest of all is the way I need to touch everything Jay has touched. If he drinks out of a glass, I want to drink from the same glass. If he eats off a plate, I want to taste his food off that same plate, using his fork. I touch the doorknobs he has touched, I rest my head on his pillow after he has gotten out of bed, and I swear I would wear his clothes if only they fit.
It seems horrible to be so happy with Leila’s ashes scattered across the overpass, but I can’t help myself. I think she would’ve wanted this for me. She, more than I, believed we should love while we can.
And so I’ll continue drinking out of Jay’s cups and singing to myself as I go about my chores. Later tonight we’ll go back to our private penthouse and make love. I want him irrationally, even though I’m too sore to enjoy it like I should. I want to eat him like a box of chocolate and draw him into every cell of my body like a virus. Then he would be with me always. Sort of like the Telo.