Just FYI, my name is Zachary Koval, and I usually go by Zac.
My name is not Zack Oval.
It’s Zac Koval.
The more you know!
Originating in the 14th century, the word “alone” comes from the Old English phrase all ana meaning “unaccompanied, all by oneself.” Literally, all ana means “all one” or “wholly one.” I am intimately familiar with being lonely and that kind of bottomless feeling that accompanies it. But you have to remember that when you’re alone, you’re never anything less than whole and complete.
To me, there’s nothing more erotic than an apartment between the two of us. My alarm has always failed where your kisses and whisper voice have not.
We shower together; not much time to do more than wash each other’s backs and hair, but that itself is underrated. I jump out first, shake my head, and go. I make coffee while you’re still drying off. We have some, then take some more for the road, and we’ll probably have more when we get where we’re going.
One last check for our things now, before we meet at the door: the diverging avenue. A quick kiss: subtlety that says “farewell. I’ll see you soon. I’ll miss you.” all in one.
The day goes by like a dark curtain pulled over the window.
The voices and memos are recorded onto disc, but I put them away and never really listen to them a second time.
To the merging avenue: the door, and a kiss that says “Hello. Dinner? I missed you.” all in one- and your hands find my shoulders as mine find your waist, we dance to nothing perfectly in the middle of our place.
I draw the dark curtain back and the light pours in.
I put on a record. Something old. This is home.
You find my buttons and you get them out of the way; Time’s agility is astounding in times like these.
I can’t believe how insufficient dinner was, so we eat again.
The rest of the evening is devoted to loose ends, loose papers, loose screws that need tightening, and then all agenda is closed in its book and put into the dresser like a muse; she was responsible for a lot of good work but that all needs to die.
Nihilism sinks in and it becomes a system of beliefs, a set of eyes and ears. When it calls, just don’t answer. Never answer.
He was a dreamer, a thinker, a speculative philosopher… or, as his wife would have it, an idiot.
Everything is temporary.
I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?