They Should Write A Book About Our Love (Then File It Under Fiction)

“You’re the American who didn’t want to come meet me?”

“I’m shy,” I lied, covering my face and embellishing. She laughed, falsely, throwing her shoulders back in a sort of exaggeration of herself.

“So you’re afraid of women?”

“Only the very beautiful ones.”

Her large eyes examined me in a way that made me uncomfortable. Quick, darting, loaded and looking for something. It wasn’t the way people looked at each other and I felt she was assessing me, weighing the quality of my face and character the way butchers check livestock in the meat market. So I did the same: She was gorgeous, skin like honey and a small, sensual frame. A shape that curved in ways pleasing to the eyes and more primal urges. And my eyes must have betrayed me, because in her glass reflection I saw a spark. Some silent affirmation that decided – “Yes, this ones fine.”

Her chaperones played the masters of ceremonies, hyping her qualities and whispering in the sidelines all the dark things I should do. We sang and danced in Patchanka, crawled wildly up and down Obispo unhinged and ordering beers for the kindest faces. Took breaks from undertones and sexual tensions with relaxed conversations about the beauty of a well sung salsa, joked pleasantly about her not wearing a bra and how bad my Spanish was.

Every so often she would casually press her side against my body, run a hand along my chest or neck. Staring into my eyes with an odd look of surrender, of offering; as if saying yes to a question I wasn’t asking.

“I could never take you home,” I said to her very frankly.

“So you think I’m ugly,” She replied playfully with a shove.

“The opposite. You’re one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. If I shared a bed or afternoon with you, it would be like something out of a dream. I’d never stop showing pictures of you to people, saying- ‘Look, see here, isn’t she the loveliest woman you’ve ever seen? And can you believe she’s interested in a guy like me?’ But I get the impression you want something. The way you look at me, it makes me doubtful. I could never trust your affection, unless you told me what it is, what it was, you were after, what you need. I’d gladly give it to you, honestly. If I can- if you would tell me. After that, I would be sure. It would show in your eyes and I would know if you really desired me, then maybe I could desire you as well.”

The confession, playful as I meant it, made an impression I did not expect. The spark in her eyes faded, and for a moment was replaced by something bordering on human. A sort of softness settled into the edges of her corneas, as if I tumbled onto a core and center too sentimental for such a jest. And admittedly, in reflection, perhaps my remarks were cruel in their truthful.

She laughed, a sound that came from somewhere much deeper than what she falsetto’d before, and tilted her head at me with a sort of pity.

“Eres noble,” She said, in a tone that may have been a compliment, but rang more of disappointment.

“Noble?” I asked.

“It means you’re a fag,” Chimed the chaperone.

And the three of them wandered away, without me.

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