I know there were a million things I could have said to introduce myself. Maybe one or two options were even sort of cute or witty. But I didn't feel cute or witty. Belligerent and loud was more on the menu and I guess I wanted it to be clear that of any of the things I was going to be giving that night, a fuck was not one of them.
"You know, I really hate your face."
"My face? You... hate my face, why?"
"Because I just don't think it's fair for someone to be such a twat and still be so damn pretty."
I could tell you that I was surprised when he leaned into me. That the last place I imagined his tongue was anywhere near my face. I could continue that when he suggested that where I really wanted his face was somewhere else entirely, he was wrong. But I had this feeling that yea, ok dude, I probably do.
And it's weird because over the past year I sort of thought that the only way I was going to start to really move on and get over New York was to meet someone new to obsess over. Just put in for a balance transfer and enjoy the next 6 months interest free. But for the first time in a long time I find myself wanting something that I don't at all care to keep.
I just want to have fun, to feel his long, soft fingers tuck my dangling hair behind an ear as I chain smoke on the patio of somewhere loud.
I want to hear my shrill, buzzing voice, spouting stupid inane drivel just because I feel like it. I want to leave with a husky, tired throat. I want to dig my nails into his lithe, supple back.
And where for half my drive here I couldn't stop the flood of maddening memories of long, involved kisses on subway platforms. Of nights blooming into morning with a warm, comforting body wrapped with mine, giggling and planning for the day... of that place with the super good rabbit and lush bottle of red wine. Of standing outside of a bar holding cigarettes and arguing the difference between the fantasy we were finishing out and the reality of things. The truth of what would happen when I got back to Laguardia, the next damned day. How maybe the best thing about me was that I'd come with an expiration date.
... right now, when I try to conjure up some piece of that puzzle all I feel is a fuzzy, funky space. I don't even know if we were in love, or if I rewrote all our moments into something greater and bigger than they ever actually were. Sometimes I think I made it all up, and maybe I'd never actually been there at all.
But for now, I'd take a cup of coffee. I'd take a secluded, secret walk with a pretty boy and happily not say a single word for an hour or three. I don't need to love him, I don't even need to like him. I just need him to be here, to remind me that not everything has to mean anything.
Sometimes life is fickle, moments are fleeting. And that can be a wonderful, wonderful thing.