The First Time

February is my worst month.

I spend many an hour not quite understanding why I feel so down, so sick though I don't have any symptoms of illness. I will stare out the window and sigh in a most dramatic fashion at least twice an hour. I will sit down to begin a task: writing, or working on the numbers for the bookstore and then my mind will wandering into nothingness, not even depressing thoughts, just boring nothingness. I begin to feel anxious even during these tasks that I normally enjoy. I spend my days exausted, but unable to sleep at night. I used to resort to a couple beers or a sleeping pill or two to help me sleep. I don't do that anymore.

When I realize that I've been behaving this way after a couple days or weeks, it will still take me a bit longer before I remember that it's February. It's what I do. Despite many people that I adore celebrating birthdays during this month it is still horrible. I detest it. Snow has been falling for months, then melting, then falling again. As a result there is a constant presence of slush. Not beautiful white snow. Just brown sludge that pretends it was once snow. The sky stays slate no matter how bright the sun shines. I'm always in a building or a vehicle. Dallying outside, admiring a snow drift does nothing for me.

This is nothing new. I've been this way since puberty. I actually have recorded proof of the decline of my senses. Middle and high school report cards show a bright student during the first two grading periods and then it seems on paper as though I've suffered brain damage for the third with a remarkable recovery for the final 9 weeks. My mother, after years of threats, groundings, and lectures, finally came to terms with the fact that my GPA was not going to reach its full potential due to this seasonal phenomenon. In fact, she recognized the pattern far before I did. How could I? My brain does not function properly during these 28 (29) days.

One such February, I almost checked out. It wasn't a conscious decision, more of an accident caused by my brain fog. I'm only reminded of this because it is currently February and I'm wishing Roger was here right now to cheer me up like he did that day.

To put it in the time line which I know has jumped all around from ten years up to two years ago: this happened after Roger told me his secret, but before the spring incident when he ran stampeding through downtown traffic and almost got himself killed.

It was a Sunday evening. My bookstore closes early on Sundays, so I was home with my cat and fish. George was curled around Stanley's bowl like usual, occasionally opening one eye to watch the fish lazily weave through his water fern. I had read somewhere that cats like companionship if their owners are gone a lot. After lengthy conversations with George on the matter, I decided that he would not want his territory usurped but wouldn't mind having someone around the house. I know a fish is an unusual choice, but it's working out remarkably well. Either that or my cat is keeping the mail order fish business thriving.

I was having a bottle of wine, and the glass would not hold still by this point, when Roger rang the buzzer downstairs. I let him up and was momentarily puzzled. Did we have plans?

"I just thought I'd come by," Roger answered my unspoken question. "Thought you might like some company."

"George is here. He's pretty good company. Doesn't say much, though." I turned and looked at my cat and was surprised to see he had two heads. "I think I need to siddown." I felt my way to the couch and sunk into the cushion.

Roger wasn't saying much. In fact I don't think he was talking at all at this point. I could feel him moving around me, shuffling the papers around on my desk, picking up things and putting them back down. I lay with my head against the arm of the couch staring at George staring at Stanley. I vaguely remember calling Roger earlier. Had I said something? I heard a rattle. Then suddenly Roger pulled me to my feet.

"Hey Sam, lets dance!"

What the.. "Are you out of your mind? I have no music playing, I'm freakin' drunk, and I feel like sleeping. I haven't been able to sleep in days and I'm finally tired." At least that's what I tried to say. I think it came out more like: "R yous outta yur min? 'S no musix. Ima frickin' drnk, and I'm sleping. I wanna slept."

Roger was having none of it. He got me slung over one arm and dragged me over to the stereo. Selecting a disc, he punched buttons until the music came on. I swear if he had picked any thing other then George Clinton I wouldn't have danced. It's impossible to not dance to P-Funk. Instead I did the white girl groove. Head down, arms bent at the elbow like I'm going to snap my fingers but don't, doing a step side to side, singing along, and getting half the words wrong. Good stuff.

I don't know what Roger was doing while I sang about dogs, but he was on the phone, talking to someone. Why did he bother coming over if he's going to talk to someone else while he was here.

I was tired from dancing and went back over to the couch. He suddenly snapped his phone closed and strode over to me.

"Sam. You want to see a trick?"

"That entirely depends. What is this wondrous trick you wish to show me?" Why is it when a person is drunk they try to talk more eloquently then they would when sober? And it just accentuates out how drunk they really are.

"I need some water." Roger went to the kitchen. I followed, curious to what he was up to. He was bent over the sink, with the water running full force. "For this I would only need a trickle, but I wanted the effect to be instantaneous. Stand back, Sam, for you do not understand the supreme power that is Leviathan!" With that he trust his hand into the stream.

Roger began to shake ever so slightly. His whole body was a trembling. His eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, his face pinched with pain. He seemed to grown taller, but when I looked down I saw he was straightening from being bent over the sink and stretching up on his toes.

He pulled his hand away from the water and bellowed, "Do no fear me, Samantha! I keep all mental faculties when I transform!"

I stared transfixed at Roger's face. Was this actually happening? Didn't he realize?

Roger looked down at me, fear was mixed with pride in his eyes. He waited, anxiety growing the longer I remained silent.

I laughed. I laughed so hard I bent over double. Tears began streaming down my face. My whole body was in on it. It was the uncontrollable laughter that once it starts it will not stop. When you try to stop it just makes you laugh harder. I knew I was hurting Roger's feelings, but I couldn't stop! I laughed until I puked. Literally.

I made it to the kitchen sink just in time. Water splashed up in my face as I vomited, Roger hadn't had a chance to turn it off yet.

Roger was muttering to himself "That wasn't quite what I was expecting, but it seems to have had its benefits. I was just trying to keep you awake, but puking actually works better."

Now I began to cry. "Oh, Roger, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. I don't know why I laughed. I really don't." I was sobbing and exhausted, I slumped down against the cabinets. I felt Roger's arms fold around me, the warmth of his chest through his shirt as he carried me to my room.

Roger didn't leave me that night or the next day. Every time I woke up he would be there, sitting in the arm chair, book in his lap, desk lamp on with his cell phone close at hand. In the morning, he made me coffee and we sat at my tiny kitchen table talking about sun-imitating lamps, St. Johns Wart, and locking up the liquor during the month of February.

We waited until that night to talk about Leviathan.