From Hot to Cold.

It was July. The city was hot. The Mormon was gone and I was deep into rehearsals. He had left a blazer at my apartment and his scent clung to it and I clung to that scent. I would come at night exhausted after 8 hours of work and four hours of rehearsal and grab the jacket, curl up on the floor and inhale his scent. I needed it. The scent faded quickly. Finally, I knew it was best to fold the jacket up and put it into the closet. I was still occasionally emailing the Mormon. We talked on the phone one or two times. I made a point of saying, "It's JV" every time I called him and thought he was overstepping the bounds of intimacy by saying, "It's me" when he phoned. He sent me a text one morning from an IHOP, remembering our IHOP experience in Miami. But most of the time, he was cold. Distant. Lost to me.

Instead of clinging to that jacket like Emma in 'Song & Dance' singing 'Tell Me On a Sunday', I knew it would be better out of sight.

Rehearsals for 'Icarus' were intense and extraordinary. The play explored lots of issues and themes that I found uncomfortable in my own life: self-worth, beauty, worthiness. I invited the Mormon to our final rehearsal in the city. He said, "maybe." I stood outside 520 8th Avenue smoking a cigarette and waiting until the last possible minute. He didn't show. I remembered how a month or so before he casually tossed of an "of course I am" when I said I hoped he would come to Texas to see the play. Now I couldn't even get him in the same room with me in the same city.

'Icarus' was a blessing for me. It remains the best show I've directed before or since. It was a combination of striking visuals and mostly strong performances. There was a rawness and a power to it that I haven't felt often. I enjoyed being in Texas. It was different. It was fresh. The days were hot and dry. We came to the theatre and into piles and piles of sand in front of a staircase that reached to the sky, an angel's wing in the process of being painted on to it. Magical Realism at it's best.

The days went quickly and the nights were painfully slow. I would have trouble falling asleep, but no trouble waking up in the morning. I would go for long hikes in the woods and return energized, sweaty and ready for rehearsal. The closer we came to opening, the more I felt all the elements of the show coming together. Tech is always my favorite part of any rehearsal process. It's usually the first time that everyone involved in the production is in the room together, working toward the same goal. I could sit for hours and play with light and sound, watching the actors get comfortable in the space, adjust their blocking, or just sit around talking. It's magic.

I had had a single date right before leaving. It was a set up; a friend of a friend. We met in Soho and went to some expensive, fancy seafood place. He was nice, nondescript, older than me, stuffy. We had little to say and the evening was prolonged by drinks after dinner. At least he paid. I was surprised to get a text from him in Texas wishing me a happy opening. But would I hear from the Mormon.

On opening night, I was in the theatre before the house opened. The actors were backstage, the crew was backstage and I was, surprisingly, all alone. I stood there in the sand looking up at the giant angel's wing and I thought about what I had done, what I had created, what I had dreamed into life here. And I thought about the Mormon and what he had destroyed, what he had killed, what he had given up. There was a tap on my shoulder and one of the interns handed me a note. "Someone wanted me to give this to you." My heart jumped. Was it the Mormon? Was he outside in the lobby? Was he here for me, finally? I opened it up and it was something scrawled in blue ink on a piece of notebook paper. Silly lines about someone having a secret crush on me. I crumpled it up and tossed it in a waste basket. He wasn't coming. He wasn't ever going to come back to me. I knew it and I didn't want to know it.

The audience began to file in and I put him out of mind. The set designer, the lighting designer and I sat next to each other grasping hands as the lights went down. We all knew we had created something beautiful, but would the audience know? Would they get it? To a point, they did. But asking people to face the ugliness and insecurities inside of themselves is never easy. They were polite, hushed. The critics were kind. Opening nights are lonely for me. The director puts the show behind him and leaves the family. They go on playing without you.

The rest of my time flew by quickly. I went rock climbing (see an earlier entry). I hit all my favorite spots: Papasito's, the Paris Coffee Shop, etc. And I got ready to go home. I knew when I did, the Mormon needed to be faced. I had to return his jacket and some other items. He had some of my stuff as well. My friends told me not to do it. "Don't see him in person." Why not? Shouldn't he have to see me? Shouldn't he have to face me and hand me things I had left with him?

On a rainy Sunday afternoon we met at a coffee shop on Bedford Ave in Williamsburg. I was first and I grabbed a table outside, under an awning. I sipped my coffee. I heard a rumble behind me and I watched his truck back into a parking spot. What was I thinking? What did I want? For him to say, I was wrong. I miss you. Take me back. And would I have? At that point? Yes. I would have. But he didn't. We chatted over coffee. I handed him a paper bag with his things. He handed me a plastic bag with mine. We said goodbye. Immediately upon returning home, the skies cleared and the sun came out. It was late August but cool for that time of year. I went online and wrote him an email. "I know this is difficult. I would like to keep you in my life. I don't want to burn the bridge...etc." He emailed back directly: We'll see. I usually find it necessary to burn the bridge, etc.

Very few emails were exchanged after that. I told him I was taking a writing class he had taken, with the teacher who had been a sort of mentor for him. Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe not. It started me writing again. But on Monday nights I would come home late, cross under the BQE and hope to see his truck parked in front of the house waiting for me because he knew where I was and when I'd be home. In class, I didn't write about him. The exercises took me back to another time. Another person. Other relationships. But on my own I began to craft a piece about our short time together. Almost six months but it felt longer. How can one touch you so quickly, so deeply and then disappear? It's a part of life.

I went to the gym. I went to work. I started internet dating (see earlier entry) and I got on with my life. We no longer emailed. The city began to be mine again in a way it hadn't been in a long time. Walking the streets by myself at any time of the day or night, I remembered that feeling I had when I first moved here. I had changed so much. And then I realized I didn't really want to be dating so 'goodbye Match.com.'

I've only seen the Mormon four times since that last coffee meeting. Once on 42nd Street as I cleared a barrier and there he was waiting for someone who was taking him to the opening night of 'Mary Poppins.' I told him I had left at intermission when I'd seen the show in London. I made sure that when I passed him again I was smoking a cigarette and he could see me and I "ignored" him.

Once on the subway platform at 42nd Street on my birthday. I was going through a particularly rough time at work. I was reaching the end of my rope (the first time) and the Loved One and I had just spent a weekend at his parents. As I heard the subway approach I turned and there he was, standing on the platform; hair uncharacteristically slicked back, a fancy coat and all dressed up. Pretending to be someone he wasn't. I don't know if he saw me. The Loved One and I got on a different car, I made sure of that.

One morning on the G train he appeared before me. I recognized his swagger as we made our way down the long hallway in which you transfer from the G to the E. I'm a fast walker and he was in no rush, his head held high, whistling. Like a maniac I made my way to the moving platform (I hate the people who use the moving platform, by the way. It doesn't get you there that much quicker and just fucking walk.) I weaved my way in and out of people to pass him and go on.

And, finally, only a few months ago. Once again going through an extremely rough time at work, I had a particularly intense therapy session. I had committed to meeting the Loved One and his friend for dinner in Chelsea afterwards. With my iPod on and tears in my eyes I made my way on the L to 8th Avenue. I exited on 17th Street and 8th to avoid as much of the cold as possible. When I hit 8th Avenue, the street was busy. When I crossed 18th Street, everyone had mysteriously disappeared. The street lights cast there amber glow on the street and I saw the world through a haze of tears in my eyes. I glanced up the street ahead of me and there he was, walking toward me with an American Apparel bag and a coat and hat I recognized from two years ago. It had been two years. He saw me and opening his mouth either in surprise or to say something and all I could do was laugh, shake my head from side to side and turn in to the restaurant, to the Loved One and leave the Mormon behind, alone, on 8th Avenue, in the cold.