People come and go in this life. Some leave a mark, a mark that you never want to erase and just look back to, over and over, even if they have the tendency to inflict pain, leave a scar and burden you, if not haunt you. But the pain’s somewhat overseen… when you have only fond memories of him.
It was just another Saturday night. I’m never really a weekend party person. There’s something about the crowds on Saturday and Friday nights that make me want to skip it. Someone told me that this is a common thing among the masters of the club scene. Weekends are for those who go to parties, Weeknights are for those to whom the party goes.
But, that was at least a year ago. I’ve given the clubs a sort of permanent rest after I’ve decided to distance myself from the tomfoolery I’m used to. My life’s different now…
The end of the week just usually means I finish a thick book from sunset to sunrise. I still insist on having to do something at night, on a comfy bed, so I get my geek on and play some PC game, or get that book, while I wait for dawn. But that weekend, for some reason, I just felt like I wanted to suffocate in the cigarette smoke and deafening bass in our favorite club.
After only two drinks, and after ignoring at least three guys who approached me and my friend, I realized it was a bad idea to go out after all. Perhaps the hormones led me to feeling that way, but I was just hesitant to the feel of another person being too near me and hearing overused pickup lines and lies which I’m normally able to tolerate as long as they kept the alcohol pouring.
I downed my drink and started dancing like an intoxicated crazy person. I thought it was alright to embarrass myself that way before leaving, knowing no one in the crowd would remember anyway as long as you stop doing that after five minutes—that’s a normal threshold. It’s a crazy thing, but dancing is like a cure to me. I know guys would stare and find it sexy, hot and enticing, but it’s not really how I want it to be. The way I dance may attract unwanted attention, but that’s just how my body takes in the music.
Out of nowhere someone whispers in my ear and I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The accent… it was European. And I turned around to see this gorgeous guy in front of me, asking me if I’d like another drink, seeing I was no longer holding anything. I thought it wouldn’t hurt, just one more drink. But that one drink became two, then three, until I lost count.
I don’t get drunk easily. My father made sure of that when he taught me the wonders of alcohol as early as eleven years old. Every conversation I have when tipsy is just like any I’d have in my lucid state. What we talked about, how he sounded like with his sexy Spanish accent is still too clear a memory that it’s hard to tell if it all happened amidst all that heart pounding music.
He was probably the most gorgeous guy in the club and I started to wonder why he’d taken interest in me. And quite honestly, to this day, I still don’t know.
That night, he asked me to leave with him, which I normally wouldn’t do. But I simply had to hold out my hand and we ended up waiting for the sunrise together. That part, I’m afraid is more of a haze. That was the time when my head was spinning and I was just about ready to surrender to the nearest bed in sight. Again, my father’s voice kept hammering on to my head. He taught me to always go straight home after drinking, even if it meant rolling on the ground to the front porch of our house.
So I left this ultra posh condominium along Ayala Avenue and hailed a cab.
He did not let me leave without getting my number. I gave it to him, my real number, not really expecting to get a call or text as I felt it a mystery, the kind of attraction he had towards me.
Later that evening, I get a “Hi” from an unknown number on my phone. It was him; asking me out to dinner, hoping that I wasn’t busy or had previous plans. Oh god, who would be too busy to not have time with this guy! I could not believe he was asking me out!
Another memorable night, dinner, endless talks about his career as a physicist and mathematician for a prestigious university in Madrid, while he had to listen to my boring office engagements. I was in awe. He wasn’t only hot from head to toe; he was the classiest nerd I know!
That was the start of one shared dinner after another, nights of intelligent talk, never a mundane thing as he was so interested in my culture, knowing that for a few hundred years, his ancestors have claimed this country as their own, and I, just ogling at how his lips would move and how I still can’t believe this guy is actually talking to me!
Needless to say, the dinners, drinks and all that talk lead to intimate moments. It was impossible to say no… He makes me forget everything and remind me of the joy I once knew… I ignored the guilt not just once, nor twice… each time more magical than the last. He was unbelievably amazing. Everything I know in the art of love making, he proved to be mediocre. Not because he was overly skillful, or seemed to have all the experience, but because he was gentle enough to make sure I was comfortable but had the strength to go rough when the moment demanded it. It seemed like those nights were about discovering each other, knowing what pleased the other. My heart pounded like it was about to burst each time we were in each other’s arms.
He’d constantly stare at me, as we rested, happily exhausted. Caressing my face, touching my hair, he’d tell me how happy he was to be spending time with me. Pretending to be asleep, I would just smile and not say a thing. After finding love, losing love on too many occasions, my mind reminds me that words are of zero to no value. But sometimes, it felt so true, that I wanted to hang on to every word and just allow myself to feel everything…
Then, like any foreigner in my country, it comes to a time where they’d have to leave, for whatever more important reason than the fling they find themselves in. I knew this was going to happen. I was ready for this, the moment I turned around to hear him offer me a drink.
It’d be hard to forget him. Not after he told me he was tempted to change his ticket on the last minute… not after he’s insisted I add him on facebook and keep in touch… not after he swore he was going to see me again… not after he held my face, gently kissed me, and looked at me straight in the eye and said: “Someday, you’ll be mine.”
It may seem corny, it was only about two weeks… but when I hear the song Bedshaped by Keane, my eyes would just start to water, remembering all that time with him. I thought I’d give him a week. Maybe he was just overwhelmed by what happened between us. Like an infatuation that slowly disappears in time. But it wasn’t like that at all.
Several weeks have passed. We’re still talking. But, as friends. Or at least as pretend-friends. Checking how he’s doing, how I’m doing, small talk, just to politely inform each other that we were both still alive. I guess it’s just too hard not to say anything when you see that green, “Available” circle on MSN messenger. This constant urge to make each other’s presence known, even if we’re in opposite sides of the world is what makes it difficult to succumb to my harsh reality which I eventually told him of... I’m engaged to marry in five months… to someone else.