A March Without February, Voyeur Tips.

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A March without February. I feel caught off guard, ready to dispute the chronological facts when I suddenly remember. I took sleeping pills all month to push the days through. Twenty-eight of them. The only true 4-week month. A lunar month. The only month loyal to the menstrual cycle. If you mark all the days with little red x's and circle the three days in the middle of the month using a red felt-tipped pen you can safely have unsafe sex. An even 28 days. You can't get pregnant if you mark the days.

When I went out that night, half-asleep, the least obvious star of the ball, it seemed like a good idea. I stuck to a friendly spot on the futon in a little smoking room. I sacrificed my vision to keep off of my feet. It was a revolving strobe that passed through four colors that reminded me of Tibetan prayer wheels I saw in a movie. At least two different men in the span of 30 minutes sat down next to me and had something interesting to say about the history of this light or names of famous artists who wrote plays while hypnotized in its trance. I went home with one of them.

It had been nearly two years without any coal in the furnace.

Previously, coal kept me warm, burning brightly, efficiently, yet filthy, in a black hole, connected to my body by an ash-laden tube. Black itself, dug up from God knows where, and male. Dave, Christoph, Gabriel, Joshua, Angus, Johnny, Sharif, Francis.

There were other months, too. Months without names, calendar pages ignored, little x's in other places made by other pens. Holidays, smiles, umbrellas. New York Christmas trees – blue spruce, maybe scotch. Milk carton marigolds grown in grade school for Mother's Day. Homemade cards for Father's Day. Little hand squeezed in big hand a little too tightly. Big blank smile, big knowing blank eyes.

Wasn't every day Father's Day in my house? At least I never went to gym class and had to embarrass him by explaining the bruises, because I didn't like gym class anyway. Something about forced participation, I felt I'd had enough already. Plus, luckily, I never scarred. Had I even morbidly fantasized about being questioned over a mark or tow, I barely believed it was abuse myself. I barely believed my souvenir from our trip to Florida was a beating with a 2 x 4 upon return. I was nine; my eleven-year old brother got the same souvenir. We didn't argue about it. We barely believed it.

Friends of mine now say, "I thought one day you would just tell me". But when you forget which month it is, how do you tell anyone that you can't heat yourself because there is no more coal in the furnace?

There were other days, too. A wedding anniversary, ours, that always went uncelebrated. Now, mine, it only goes unnoticed.

I'm positive that being negative will pay off for me in the end. There will be another flavorless ice cream cone to lick. This one will be called Emily. My gums will tingle with the cold, my tongue will numb, and when it starts to melt, my hands will become sticky like before.

I feel I will soon be invited to another party. I'll wear clothing that covers the swelling belly of however many months since February may have passed. There I will find sleeping pills on top of an oven that will keep me warm. White metal, deadly silent, broken lightbulb, the aromas of countless dinners burnt inside, androgynous. Filthy yet sanctuary clean, so inviting I can only open its door and crawl inside.