A Certain Man

I don't exactly understand how things ended up the way they are, but well—oh well?

He started out as some shady figure in the background, lurking around like a toothache waiting to happen. I dismissed his existence entirely, simply because he was as intriguing as a wooden log, and when he spoke, he had the charm of one, too. And his eyes didn't move. They never moved. A friend of mine saw him once (it was an accident, she never saw him again), and said he had the eyes of a fish. I guess he does. Big, round, bulging eyes that looked at you squarely in the face and just stared without emotion. His features weren't particularly handsome on their own, and when added up, they weren't homely, but not exactly attractive either. All in all he was bland, in both looks and personality.

Yet here I am, sprawled on his bedroom floor, multiple pairs of underwear scattered about (he insists on putting on a fresh pair right after we're done). He's in the bathroom, brushing his teeth (he insists on brushing his teeth afterwards, too). Him and his toothpaste kisses, they always taste like mint Aquafresh. I can't fucking stand it. It reminds me of that first hour at school; when everybody's sulking miserably in their seats, missing the warm comfort of their beds.

We're not really dating, though many would make that assumption. To be honest, I don't really know what we are. I frequent his place whenever I feel the need to; after a particularly nasty fight with my boyfriend, after a shit day at work, early in the morning or late at night. He's become my sanctuary, my very own island retreat. Whenever the world proved too much (or not enough), I'd come knocking on his door; one, two, three, and before I get to the fourth he would swing it open and say, "How can I be of service, miss?"

  And to his amusement I would say, "Love me."

(Only it's not really love, but another four-letter word. And he never finds it amusing.)

He doesn't say much. In fact, he hardly says anything at all. Maybe it's because I never shut up; going on about every single detail of my life. Sometime it's about my day at work, other times it's some random memory from my childhood—but whatever I'm talking about, he listens as if it's the most fascinating thing he's ever heard. And once I'm done, he'd give me one of his smiles. His entire face would wrinkle and fold into itself, like a deflated balloon, all except his eyes; his eyes would always remain unfazed.

"Do you want something to eat?" he asked, in that calm voice of his. He was so soft-spoken, words would just pour out of his mouth like warm honey. I love his voice, I love the way he talks; I guess it's the only thing about him I truly like. Rather ironic, seeing as he hardly speaks at all.

Without really waiting for an answer (it wasn't really a question), he placed a tray on the floor and sat next to me, "Put something on, you'll get a cold."

"And here I was thinking you'd appreciate my naked form."

"I do." he said, picking up a pair of underwear and placing it carefully on my lap.

"It's dirty."

"Aren't you the one who's always agitated by my, what do you call it? Obsessive hygienic practices."

"Doesn't mean I want to wear your dirty underwear."

"It isn't dirty. Put it on."

I promptly obliged, sliding them over my thighs while he silently watches over, "Now eat."

God, I love it when he's like this; all sexual frustration and fatherly concern. He always made sure to tread on that delicate line between them, careful not to sway one way or the other. Sometimes I wished he wasn't so careful, that he would tilt whichever way he preferred; but I'm not really sure which side he'd choose, and I don't know which I'd rather he chose.

"And here I was thinking you'd ask for another go."

"I will, once you're done eating."

Then, Night to Bust

The moment I stepped in, I was immediately struck by the overwhelming smell of alcohol and sweat. Paired with the oppressive heat and lack of ventilation, and I was almost ready to gag. I could barely see anything, if not for a flurry of people: glowing, flashing, illuminated.

And there she was.

I didn't quite recognize her at first; slumped over the counter, head buried in her hands. But as I was making my way towards her, I realized she'd been looking at me through the reflection of the mirror all along. I slipped next to her and waited for the slightest bit of acknowledgement (a stupid move, really, what with her track record so far). I had initially decided to wait it out, but in my hasty impatience, I knew I was bound to break.

And some part of me was overjoyed, seeing her here. Our encounter had been so long ago (4 months and 12 days, if you were counting) but I was as unsuccessful in forgetting about it as I was in finding her. I don't really know what I was hoping to achieve in finding her, but I looked with all my might (or, as much as I could without making an ass out of myself). And as I was finally coming to terms with my defeat, she appears, almost out of thin air!

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" I start, already regretting my approach. There was something so unattainable about her; how she was never truly present, too lost within herself to allow for an actual connection between us. It was only when I provoked her that I got any response at all.

She looked over at me and frowned. Her eyes skimmed over my face, settling on each feature as if she was making a mental inventory of it all. Then, within half a heartbeat, she shot to her feet and grabbed my arm, "Come."

I could hear the music gradually fade as we journeyed the narrow corridor, there were people scurrying in every direction; and she maneuvered so easily between them, as if she's done this countless times before, while I struggled behind her. Then we made our way up a steep stairway, and again, there were people sprawled at every side; this time she held my wrist and pulled me along.

When we finally made it out to the street, the autumn air came blustering towards us, cold and harsh, but it was a welcomed change to the stifling heat of the club. Her lips stained crimson and she started sniffling; and in the yellow glare of the street lights it almost looked like she was smiling.

I must have forgotten how beautiful she was, because I found myself marveling at the curve of her lips, and how her unkept hair fell in mismatched curls over her face. Her eyes were an icy blue, when she was occupied with her own thoughts, but once she broke out of it, a cloudy murkiness took over them, as if she was suddenly made aware of her own existence.

"You hungry?" she asked, barely finishing her sentence when I already answered with a yes.

"Come on, then."

Maybe it was my own wishful thinking but it felt as if some preexisting barrier had somehow been removed.  Every once in a while, I'd start a conversation with her; most of the times I'd fail to even get it started, but sometimes she would humor me, mumbling her replies before quickly falling to silence once again. Yet it wasn't an unpleasant sort of silence. It felt comfortable; like the fluid silence of casual companionship.

And when the night finally came to an end, I asked her if she had a good time. She took a few moments to consider (which wasn't a good sign), and finally answered with a yes.

Then I told her it was the most fun I've had in a very long time.

And she said: "We better work on that, then."


 *Previous part: http://relinquish-my-masochism.blogspot.com/2013/10/one-crows-rows.html

Homophone

I have a dream or two,
in them you're always mine.

I'm always first in queue,
in fact there is no line.

Do excuse my verse, but there is truth in rhymes.

(All right, I'll stop now)

But please,
please, please, let me kiss you like I did yesterday. And you, lub-dub, lub-dub against my tongue. Maybe then, you could kiss me back. And I, throb, thump; from the soles of my feet to the very tip of my—

But darling, don't you see? It's not at all what it sounds like.
But darling, can't you tell? It's love, in its own way.

First, Crows & Rows

We met at a bookstore at some abandoned part of town. It was one of those second-hand bookstores, where young city dwellers came to browse "pre-loved books" (it is, after all, the only fashionable way to read). I was there out of necessity; living on the meager budget of a student meant I couldn't really afford new books (which is a shame, really, what with all the intricate cover illustrations, nowadays).

It was him that approached me (a detail that we would later disagree about), tall and scrawny and all too proud of himself. He said he'd seen me around several times, so occupied with my own thoughts that I wouldn't notice a fire if it were burning right next to me. And what is it that consumes you so? he asked.

"Figuring out how much of my money I could spend without having to sleep on an empty stomach."

"And the verdict is?"

"Well, I really want these books but I haven't had a thing to eat all day, so."

"So," he inched closer, frowning as he tilted the books towards him. I would hardly call it a frown, though; it was more like that wrinkled expression middle-aged men liked to use when intrigued. And it wasn't until I was studying his frown that I realized that I hadn't even bothered looking at him so far.

And he wasn't at all what I imagined he'd look like. There was a calm stillness to his face, but he was not distant; ever present with a half-smile. Eyes the color of honey, that quickly turned dark as black the moment he felt my gaze, as if to conceal some terrible secret of his.  And then there were his eye-brows; raven-black and eagerly compensating for the mildness of his expressions with over-the-top movements.

"Ah," he echoed, "She has finally graced me with eye-contact!"

I shrugged and took a step back, to which he instantly took a step forward, "Well, what do you think?"

"About?"

"This." he grinned, pointing towards his face.

"Well, it doesn't really fit your general demeanor, does it?" I quipped, a bit too aggressively. Something about the way he behaved provoked me to do so (which I later realized was his intention all along).

"So you're either displeased with my looks or my demeanor," he smiled, lowering his head until his chin was almost touching his throat, "I'm not really sure which I'd rather you disliked."

And when my lips parted I was too occupied with the grumbling protests of my stomach to actually say anything. I looked down at the books, sighing, as I shoved them at a random shelf and made my way out. He burst out of the shop, several moments later, stomping towards me. Only then did it dawn on me that I had walked out mid-conversation without saying a word. I was going to apologize, at first, but he was going on about the incredible rudeness of it all that I decided not to. I started walking and, of course, he followed; still very frustrated about my appalling lack of common courtesy. I ignored him as one would ignore a child on one of his tantrums. Not that he noticed, really, as he was too busy talking to himself.

And then, finally, the stars aligned and he quieted down; and after several blocks worth of silence, he abruptly stopped. I had every intention to keep walking, but for reasons beyond my comprehension, decided to stop as well. And when I turned to him, he looked at me with an expression I could only describe as heartbreak; it was almost as if all the forgotten wounds of his past suddenly split open and started to bleed.

 "I'm sorry," I finally said; neither smiling, nor frowning, "I am."

And then I carried on.

Electronic Seduction

He was revulsion concentrate, and I wanted to fuck up so badly.

He was even in the air; reeking of cheap vinyl and moldy basements (master pleather, miasmic overlord), and I wasn't quite sure, but I thought:

Trust in lust. (Or what I later came to discover was the rhythmic palpitations of synthpop.)

E-e-e-electronic seduction.

The Fallen Leaf

I swear I tried my best
(my best wasn't much, it seems)

But I swear I fucking tried
(for a good five minutes, at least)

No, but listen, listen; it was magical, like sinking water lilies and corn-chip dust
(The water lily that sunk! From corn-chip to dust!)

Do you see it now? The fallen leaf 
(who was it that decided I was a leaf, again?)

And I swear, it tasted like honeyed almonds 
(and soy sauce?)

Yes, that doesn't sound all that appetizing, but I swear, it was delicious
(in its own way)

And if you made it this far 
(and you're wondering)

This is not a cautionary tale.

It's only just begun

Lately, I've been plagued with the feeling that something—some grand and life changing thing—was about to happen; like the momentary halt before crossing a road.

And even that, in its crippling anticipation, isn't all too bad.

It's that gnawing question, that nipping thought:

What if
there's nothing to come?

What if
this was all it would ever be?