I mean, my head upon your lap?

There’s a couch, in my memory, and on it, I am sitting with a man’s head in my lap. I stroke his brown curly hair because it’s just right there and seems to be the thing to do. He’s a man. With is own apartment now.
We watch an episode of Kids in the Hall, wherein I’ve heard of but never been able to see, due to it’s being on cable. I know this man to be a player. I have heard stories about beach weeks and bedrooms and I have seen him in action with a girl on a bus, many years ago. But there’s a tenderness on this couch. Something I didn’t really see in those two months when we went together, when I tried to express my affection and he teased me for it. And despite all those reasons I have to push this man away. I have ended up here on this couch in my memory (Is it yellow? I think it’s yellow. Or chartreuse.) because I longed for him ever since – even with all the reasons I knew him to be bad news.
How I ended up here on this couch, I don’t recall. How I left and never returned, I also can’t recall. I suspect he tried to push my boundaries again and I made my permanent exit but all I really recall is the couch, the lap, the hair and the TV show.
If I could find my journal from that time, I’m sure the rest of the story would rush back but here, now, at least twenty years later, it is simple. It is a man with his head upon my lap.

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