Where you are.

4 12 2011

I imagine you at the aquarium, meeting some other volunteer who is way more passionate about biology and animals than I could ever be.  You’re both standing in front of the tortoise and the sharks, illuminated by the bluish light from inside the tank.  It makes his eyes even bluer.  He has a smile that turns heads and he’s charming, making you laugh with every other sentence, while I could only make you roll your eyes at my jokes.  His facial hair adds to his good looks, not detracts.  With him, you find that you can be your loud, boisterous self that I’ve seen is the real you.  He talks a lot and you talk a lot.  There is no shortage of words, no time for silence.   (I could never find all that many words to say.)  After some flirting which doesn’t feel forced, he confidently asks you out for drinks, and you agree, reminded of how I refused to drink, despite your nagging that it was polite and a social custom to do so.

He’s comfortable being in a bar.  Over drinks, you get to know each other better.  You’re both students, both studying biology, and both have exes who wanted more time in a relationship than what you were both willing to give.  What a relief, you think, to finally meet someone who feels the same way about relationships.  Before the end of the night, you still want to be around him– he’s only the third person you’ve ever met who you genuinely don’t feel like you could ever get tired of.  “Immune”, as you called it, as if he has evaded some sort of disease, one that I was unable to avoid.

You tell him you’re a vegetarian and he says he is too; he informs you he loves Shakira and going to the haunted houses at Fright Nights, and you tell him you do too.  Unlike me, he doesn’t speak a word of Spanish except for “hola” and “taco”, but you never liked speaking in Spanish anyway.  All the while, both of you can’t help looking into each others’ eyes.  He touches your hand, your arm, the way I used to, and it’s been a while since a guy has touched you.  It feels good, warm, and sends a tingle up your spine.  He’s subtle in the way he lets you know he’s into you, whereas I resorted to double-entendres and whispering in your ear of all the things I wanted to do to you.

When you leave, he offers to drive you home, and you accept.  He invites you over to his place, where he lives alone, not with his family.  He’ll invite you over many more times, and it’s convenient because, as you’ll both discover, he lives also lives in the same area where you can get to his place easily.

Neither of you still talk to your exes.  Alone with him at his place, he asks about your ex.  You tell him mostly good things: that he’s a writer and a filmmaker who was romantic.  Your first love.  Charmed you with slow-dancing to Chet Baker.  Supported you when you came out.  Sounds nice, he says, and you agree.  I couldn’t give him what he wanted, though, and he just didn’t get me, you realize.  Not like you, you add.

You’re more than content with seeing each other once or twice a week for a few hours because that’s all you both have time for.  It doesn’t bother you, and it doesn’t bother him.  Clearly, he isn’t insecure about your relationship.  This is a real relationship, you wonder to yourself.  This is what I want.  Him.

The last words your ex said to you are probably still in your facebook messages inbox somewhere: If you ever do decide you have time for a relationship again and want to start things again, I’m leaving it up to you. In the meantime, goodbye.  Goodbye.  It is easier to leave the story at goodbye, easier to say hello to someone new and start writing a new manuscript instead of saying hello again and re-writing a new chapter of a stale novel.  Easier to create new life than revive a cold season.  Easier and preferable.

You have the briefest of thoughts about what your ex could be doing at this moment, where he is.  Probably studying, or in class, or at home with his cat whom he constantly would talk about.  The thought disappears, however, as he kisses you.  You kiss him back, and are not surprised that you do not think of me.

Little do you know he’s sitting alone at home, coughing up words to clear the block in his throat.  Writing a fear.  Giving in to his insecure mind again.

Wondering where you are.


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