I spend Sunday morning counting the tiny freckles on his right shoulder while he sleeps. I trace his tattoos with my fingertips and wake him up with the chills. After the rollercoasters and neon of last week, this quiet Sunday morning in his arms may be the most perfect moment of my life. He offers to make breakfast, but I'm embarassed because the only things in my refridgerator are yogurt and assorted condiments. I tell him about hiking in the canyon and how I sat on the cold red rocks, inhaled the universe and exhaled his name. He doesn't think I'm an idiot for this, or at least he doesn't say so if he does. I both love and hate watching him take his shirt off my clothes rack and get dressed to leave. As he buttons his buttons, he wanders around my room, taking in all my weird little knick knacks and shaking his head, laughing.

He leaves, I snooze, and then it's time to go to the cd & record fair. On the way, I listen to Lou Reed's "Transformer". The pictures of Lou from that period are like a perfect and beautiful Frankenstein's monster. It's that black and white image i see most in my mind when I think of him, as though that's the only way he's ever existed. Perfect day, indeed, Lou....