I’m sitting on Travis’ bedroom floor, keyboard in front of me, him next to me — we’re sitting cross-legged — his fingers on three different piano keys. T is for tempo. Keep a beat. Don’t worry about the names of the notes; this isn’t about the names of the notes — it’s about the sound. It’s about the music. T is for theory. We’ve been at it now for about an hour, on his bedroom floor.

Have you ever imagined being able to go back in time to tell yourself one thing? At which point in time would you go back to, and what would you tell yourself? I think that I would tell myself about this moment right now: bedroom floor, piano lessons, january afternoon sunshine through the window while it snows. T is for time travel -- "we’ve pretty much got this song down. Let’s take a break."

I’d never believe myself if I could get over the fact that I wasn’t going to be sixteen forever. Travis’ bedroom floor? Piano lessons on thursday afternoons? This may or may not have happened. In the corner of his room Travis has a lamp that sits on top of a wooden bookshelf that has been placed to hide a crack in the wall. The crack runs up the side of his wall all the way to the ceiling. T is for talking together, travis. “so what is it like... being gay?” and i sort of roll my eyes and he laughs and says “i’m sorry people probably ask you that a lot.”

“no, not really,” I say.

“It’s just... I don’t know... I can’t imagine what it would be like.”

“It’s not really that different, Travis.”

“well, i mean. I just don’t know how my parents would take it. My dad would disown me if he found I was gay.”

if he found out you were gay? i catch this strange look in his eye. something i’ve only seen once. it was in the eighth grade and Paul Crawford had a sleep over and this kid Ed was pretending to hump this other guy who was sleeping in the tent with him, but he said it was all just a joke afterwards.

“I mean, if I was gay.”

i’m not sure what to say — i never know what to say, so the silence holds longer than it should. then we’re sitting on his bed. Travis Hunt’s Bed. Here, let’s sit on the bed and cuddle for awhile. Because being close to you is unlike being close to anyone else, it’s like my skin has become liquid and we’re spilling into each other. it’s like the bed is soaking us up.

the crack in the wall runs into the ceiling and goes right over travis’ bed. i follow it with my eyes while he’s on top of me, biting at my neck. shirts come off, t is for topless. i touch his chest, i let my fingers roam while he kisses here. t is for tongue in my mouth. piano lessons.

the crack in the ceiling goes out into the hallway, straight into his parents’ room where it must connect with some lamp or outlet. the crack is caused by wiring that was poorly covered up, i'm going to focus on every detail of this crack in your ceiling travis. i'm going to wait for it to come down on top of us. it’s warm underneath the covers, our naked bodies are pressing up against each other, i can feel our skin scratching together. sticking together. i’m just staring at the crack in the wall. the grip on my wrists is tight, t is for the taste of the salt on your skin. I wonder what it feels like to have the shiver that runs down your spine when i touch the back of your head.

I wonder what it feels like to feel like you; t for transubstantiation and soon you are finished and then there's something warm in my mouth. i’m following the crack again as you’re getting dressed.

t is for teacher. my piano lessons every thursday afternoon. travis is a good guy, he won’t let me pay him for them.