Tag: dating

You Have To Smile To Say Her Name

I can see what Hemingway saw in Cuba.

Old Havana opened to me like the wet, stale parts of a pleasant dream you’ve been interrupted from. The people are nice enough to be kind but let you alone, Havana’s dilapidated but pristine architecture remains hauntingly beautiful, and what drunk can pass up top shelf rum for two dollars and fifty cents a shot? (Only 6 bucks for the bottle in every bodega outside the tourist traps.) A writer’s paradise nestled 110 miles shy from the great liberated bays of Florida.

Cuban sun hums the kind of heat that makes sex feel more like a pass time than a necessity of the body. The women are rather beautiful, decked in their humble but strapless dresses, skirts, and generic bootie shorts. Their skin a light mahogany, turned crisp as chocolate candied in barrels of sugar cane and caramel. All busy-bodied on with their ways to work, children, friends or other excitements. None of their eyes occupied that bored, detached, and conceited vanity so common in the gorge-ous types of Tinderellas; carting their full makeup and empty hearts up Amsterdam back home. And although they were not oblivious to their spark of specific intelligence we have a habit to dare call beauty, even the Cuban courtesan maintained a modesty and meekness in their character I’ve yet to see in any American demeanor.

But no temptress, addiction, or wile siren had ever made me more drunk with love than fair Dianysia.

Dianysia, hailing from the distant lands of the Antilles, ebony skin stirring like molten rum and cokes. When I first stared into those dark pools of milk and caramel we dare call eyes, a dark and maddening desire filled my heart and all extremities. Like burning alive, but on a smaller scale- my nerves tingled in a calm excitement and I become painfully aware of life. Sensitive to the slightest touch. When her mouth curved that methane smile I was called…no, pulled towards her uncontrollably, like a marionette by a string.

She was a waitress in a bar called Patchanka near Old Havana. I’d stopped only to rest my feet, but as I finished my drink a small band manifested itself near the entrance. They began to play a soft but quickly paced Cuban salsa, sharp and lively but to a calm and hazy melody. As I listened Dianysia came bursting from the bar counter, conjured from the bottled merlots and ambrosia lined along the shelf.

She had an energy and tenacity I immediately couldn’t keep myself from. I liked to watch her work, to see her briskly bouncing from one end of the shop to the other, writing furtively with a furrowed brow, or barking jokes and groans at customers or other staff. There was something so fun in her folly and playful in her unpleasant, and when a certain chord of a certain song saxed around us in a certain way, the dark image she presented would melt to swaying shoulders and whispered hymns. Quiet prayers and praise to songs I imagine we sung only for her.  I sensed some kind of history between her and the brass musician.

“You like the way he plays?” I pestered, nodding at the saxophone player swooning the local fans.

“Me gusta la musica, no los musicos.” She replied flatly, not bothering to look up from the order she was jotting.

“But without musicians there wouldn’t be any music,” I pressed. Annoyingly, I knew, but having a taste of sharp tongue I couldn’t resist getting another.

“Entonces solo me gusta las canciones de la playa y el mar.”

“Beaches and…rivers? Then it sounds like you prefer water, not music.” I said.

She let her pen down confidently, raised the veils of her dark brown eyes to glare at me combatively.

“Y tu? Porque te sientas solo en un lugar de companeors.”

“I like to have company, not companions.” I said. She laughed, a loud and raspy percussion I wouldn’t describe as a noise, but as an instrument or natural clamor. Like water rustling down a river, or thunder.

“Pareces que prefiere alcohol, no la compania.” She spat, and before I could respond, darted back towards the bar. Feeling the sting of being shunned, I took to the rum and drank with an added gusto to assuage my wounded pride.

Moderation is a myth to me. I can never kind of- I must always either be entirely or absolutely not. I’ve never bothered to take much care of myself because my body is not a temple. It hungers, rages, consumes. It swallows and devours everything like a fire. Not knowing self-control, a little lightened by the Antillean sun, and the quick but soft songs pulsing me along, I’d been near my sixth or seventh glass before I realized the sun and my sobriety had sunk so long ago.

Dianysia banged another glass of Santiago rum before my glassy eyes, smiling so wickedly and inviting. I was confused and attributed to my being drunk. Was she serving me the entire night? Hadn’t I tried to talk to her but found her not interested? Why was she so suddenly pleased at me now but not before?

“Me gusta tambien los lunaticos.” She said, laughing, Her raspy echoed in my chest over and over. With a twist she picked up a purse, I don’t know if it was hers, and danced out the bar counter and far away from Patchanka. And I watched her, still confused and a little drunk, but enjoying her all the while. She turned the corner of the entrance, my senses re-emerged and she was gone.

The saxophonist was standing across from me, a look of worry and warning in his empty eyes.

“She’s stubborn,” Was all he said.

“I like a girl that’s sure of herself.” I replied.

“Difficult. ”

“Well nothing good ever came easy.”

“Crazy.”

“I don’t get along well with sane people.”

“She’ll always go against you.”

“Who wants to be around people that only agree with you?”

He cooked his head as if he were staring at a rorschach, laughed a little insincerely then followed up with an honest smile that bordered on pity.

“That girl’s going to make you lonely.” He sighed. I finished off the glass of rum, but already I could feel sobriety coming for me like the sun.

“I know.” I said.

Revenge Forlorn [aka I Miss Laughing During Sex]

I could hear you laugh a thousand times
and never grow tired of it. Which, by the way,
has happened. That video we made
on that night when we did those things
we would d never share with anybody,
there was a moment before the tv turned on
and you tried to twirl and
look sexy in a way that
just didn’t happen.

That instant, I must have played back a thousand times.
Not for the sexy parts. We’re so far apart
I can’t ever even imagine you in that way
again. But at about 29.59 seconds in,
your face breaks into a laugh
over mine, and I make a face
I can’t ever remember making
ever again.

And that’s it, for me.
That’s how I miss you.
I think back to that time
we were naked and stupid
and so full of each other
that we didn’t care.

Why Do We Fall Down, Bruce? (To Have Subtle Resentments and Character Flaws)

It was the second week of summer and I was riding high in friends and parties without a care or clue of what was to come. Eighteen is such a brittle age, not easily impressed but so tragically impressionable. Adulthood loomed on the corner of job and college applications I neglected to apply to. There would a time for that later, I thought, right after these beers and excessive experimentation with girls and social so-and-so’s. Don’t-even-get-me-started is the procrastinators mantra, and I carried my would-be’s misguided, but like a titan.

Tiffany was leaving soon, I forget to where. Cruising west Manifest Destiny bound on a four year college scholarship, dinner with the mayor, more books and grades to ace while the world her oyster. Lately we’d become surprisingly tender towards one another. I stopped trying to convince her to stay or love me, and instead only wanted to enjoy what little time I had left of her. She must have felt the same, I thought. Short sighted or naive as we may have been I suppose the both of us knew, instinctively, without a word or approach of the subject, that September 3rd would mark a change in both of us forever.

Milton and Anderson, cousins, were throwing a party that Friday. Surprisingly, she was the one who brought it up over the phone.

“It’s this Friday,” she said.

“Yeah I heard.”

“I might end up going.”

“But then who will close the library?”

“I’m sorry, what? I don’t speak Jerk.”

“Come with me,” I said. “It’ll be our prom.”

We’d never gone to prom, or rather, I didn’t. She asked me to, to share a limo with her, Christine, Tamara and Chloe. Her friends, a herd of herbivore What-Do-You-Even-See-In-Him’s. As much as I thought I loved Tiffany, the decline was telling. I didn’t love her enough to sit five minutes with her condescending friends. Through the tragic of social media it later surfaced she’d gone with another guy, Anthony something was his name. I forget.

“Pick me up at 8.” She said. “And you better fucking shave.”

I arrived at her house at 7:40PM sharp. We’d had many an argument in the past on account of my always being late. My excuse was that rushing was stupid, immaterial and pointless. That a friend, a real friend, or love, is not a job that needs punctuality. It needs patience.

“Yeah,” she said. “But it’s also inconsiderate. If you say three but know you won’t get there until three thirty, then just say three thirty. That’s half an hour you’re wasting on my road to a Nobel prize.”

That was the way of words she had. And its ironic, how that mock arrogance and punctuality are two of my most discerning features.

On the way to her house I remember feeling very good, happy, and a little bittersweet. I was aware that tonight was just another night, no change to the inevitable drift distance makes. But we’d never been out together, not to a party. She preferred movies, parks and picnics, quiet nights at home. She’d never seen me in what I then considered my element- the social isotope, loud and loutish, brazen and a clown to a row of strangers. I’d never shared her with my friends or took her hand in public. I’d never held her in a room full of people in a pretty dress.

This will be a good goodbye, I thought.

I rang the bell and her brother, the druggy one, answered the door with a glaze of red nirvana coloring his eyes and spotty beard. Dazed and a little daft, he nodded me in absently, drifted through the walls back to his marijuana smelling basement.

I sat waiting in her living room by the oak colored cabinet and flower blotted sofa. I remember looking at the familiar door to her room, excited, waiting for her to step out looking amazing in a…in a something. That green streak in her hair and fire in her eyes, coy and dryly staring at me to Stop-That.

The door opened and she stepped into the hall in an oversized white t-shirt. But what grabbed me most was not her wardrobe. It wasn’t the nervous in her face or worry in her step. It was the looming figure in her room staring blankly back at me, laying with a tank top and scruffy hair across her bed. Anthony something was his name, I forget. Suma cum laudie. He ran the robotics team at school and was another high hope senior on his way to a top tier college and brighter things in life.

“Sorry I….(something)….meant to call but then….(something)…not getting my text?” I think was what she said. I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t really hear anything over the sound of a deafening and violent white noise that pulsed inside my head and vibrated against my skin.

I don’t remember much of that part. Just nodding along once or twice, saying goodbye and walking calmly out the door.

My mind was blank and so was the world, the air felt stale and my tongue so dry. I walked in a random direction for however long, directionless, and while some noun or adjective might better describe the circumstance I was in, my memory paints it as that one dull word- blank. Just blank. Too shocked and taken back for any hint of sadness or rage to overcome me.

Tiffany…no, everything, it felt like, let me down. Life was a series of bad jokes I could not see the humor in. I ended up going to the party anyway. I laughed and made jokes and danced with girls I thought were pretty. I even took Jennifer back home that night. We had sex in the shower which I bragged about for years, like the rest of the day and nothing ever happened. I kept right on living that night, and every day since. Even today I don’t feel sad about it. Nostalgic, partially, but not sad.

Still, and it is difficult explaining the how or why, but I know something died within me that day. I still feel that blank darkness cataract my decisions when someone I love shows the slightest hint of unsure or indecisive. I walk away from people easily and flippant, broad and sure as a titan. Atlas too apathetic to shrug. I just don’t care.

I’ve never even been to prom.

‘Friends With Benefits’ Sounds Like A Health Insurance Plan

Can lovers remain friends?

No, but May makes me wonder if there isn’t something else our relationship could settle into apropos. Feelings are pretty sticky in a gross way you would expect, like syrup or childrens hands, and it isn’t often after the playground tumults of lust and love that I find much in the debris of interpersonals. Yet in the spaces I thought her absence would leave vacant and yearning, instead there is the same respect and adoration for her company as before. Instead I’m asking my phone out loud, I-Wonder-How-She’s-Doing, then text to ask out of no obligation other than I’d like to know.

“If that’s what you want, it’s fine,” She said. “But I know you, and I want to make sure we stay friends.”

There’s no point in stating the obvious, like those trust exercises when somone falls backwards into a persons arms. It’s not the height that makes me nervous, but why you can’t just take my word that I believe when you say you’ll catch me. I’d unconsciously decided to become defensive because of it. To a monster the norm is monstrous, and my first instinct was to reject any resemblance of feelings becoming stationary or steady. I can’t stand to sit down, am too odd to ever be even. Give me my coffee boiling hot or cold enough to make my teeth clatter. Let my experiences, and not my telling of them, be exaggerate and exhausting. A life lived in extremes is the only life worth living- I’d sooner rather die right this instant than one day look back at all my sufferings, loss, and achievements thinking “I guess it was okay.”

“Friends, right?” She said again.

May is stubborn in her pleasance, and my heart is rendered incapable of offending her love in any form. I remember the spiritual muck she saw me lying in, the hands that helped hang away the hang-ups keeping me grounded six feet deep. My life is owed to her, and whatever she should ever desire, my very bloody hands will find the way to deliver it to her.

“Friends,” I repeated, but more like a question.

I don’t know what the word entails. Will I be a weekend ruin with her, damning our souls and morality down Amsterdam chasing thighs and feelings? Another Roger barking up my phone and timeline on Saturday nights, pseudo-social sojourns with dim girls and coworkers, howling at the moon because we’re too young to be this lonely. Or will she only call me when her boyfriend is out of town and she’s bored, looking to lose herself in the arms and eyes of someone else that isn’t hopelessly decimate in an unhappy relationship? (Here’s Looking At You, Kid.) Or maybe she means the kind of people that only reach out when they need something, like someone else to double date because his girlfriend thinks you’re too ugly and grumpy to make a move on her or suggest a four-way.

“Friends,” She said again, this time softly under her breath. Then something went soft in her eyes that seemed to add

“I can tell you need one of those.”

Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous: Isabella

I’ve never been good at listening to other people’s problems and I’m chronically late to pity parties. I don’t have the patience for whine and dining, I’d rather jump straight to bed where the daily inconsequentials about yourself take a back seat to the deeper things that are at play. Most people are old fashioned and like to take things slow after sex, consider honest truths about themselves too “intimate” to be shared before the flesh or so immediately. I suppose that must make me a slut, spreading my heart to the first pair of honey eyes and warm thighs with a violent pulse.

I don’t blame the shame because I’m no romantic and either way it doesn’t last. Nothing does. Maybe that’s why I have a tendency to hit it and quit it, emotion wise. And sometimes when I’m standing in a grocery line or watching a movie I have this incredible urge to stand up and yell. I never do so I never know what I would actually say. It can’t be anything healthy, whatever it is that’s pent up, but I’ll never let it out. That might be counterintuitive but that’s life.

Nature can turn against itself. My cat likes to chew on plastic.

“There’s something in the way you look at me,” she says. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like you do.”

Isabella doesn’t drink, she simmers. When I stare into those bright, cloudy pools of milk and caramel she calls eyes a dark desire fills my heart and all extremities. Like burning alive on a smaller scale, and there is no lie in her fire. My nerves tingle in a calm excitement and I become painfully aware, sensitive to the slightest touch that tethers our bodies. Her beautiful mouth curves a smile and I’m called…no, tugged and compelled towards her like a marionette by a string.

“Do you have a wife?” She asks me casually, and I answer no. “A girlfriend then,” she presses, and in the soft intimacy of her legs wrapped in mine, I confess to so-and-so’s. To my heart having grown brash, bitter and unstable. That I don’t trust these whimsies and so called feelings, for they’ve betrayed me, and in their wake I find less beauty in life and even lesser of myself. Sentiments leave a wound and I’ve never been able to resist a scab. Yet it was in that flame of deception and lies that I was tempered, and I was surprised to find my mettle too strong to be melded.

Outside five burros are crying to the dry, arid sunrise. A cricket chirps, two coyotes wail at the moon, and between the bitter thymes of El Torito and Sergio Vargas it begins to rain. Begins to wet the still and thirsty earth so yearning for its due. Isabella mewls and I feel her warm heart thump against the imprint of palm. the crease and edges of her skin smooth and tell a story to my fingertips like braille. Its five am and soon a cab will call me down to home and other sunsets. The notion numbs me. I can’t bare the thought, to leave her side or moment unfulfilled, but what matter that we lay together when sleep tears us apart and a dream will keep us separate.

“Will you stay the night?” She asks. And I nod to confess so.

The coyotes howl and somewhere back home my cat is chewing happily on a garbage bag. I kiss her sweet lips and feel the the ashes of my soul ignite my passion once again.

Love, like life, must find a way.