It happens. After
a few weeks going out, when everything still seems magical and new but you
start feeling the first few traces of familiarity with your brand new significant
other, couples start to romanticize the moment when they first met. Either
because it’s an endearing and fun topic that will end in playful sex or either
because people start asking “so, you two, how did that happen?”. For him it was
the time he came to a party in my residence in Giudecca (we both currently live
in Venice) with a bunch of his other Spanish friends and every time he talked
about that moment I would just nod and agree silently, even thought we didn’t exchange
more than a couple of words that night. Finally I had to confess that I had
been so wasted my memories were actually just blurry images and the only reason
I was sure he was there that night was because of the group picture he uploaded
to his Facebook. I insisted the actual moment when we met was the first time we
went out just the two of us, weeks after that first encounter. It was the first
time we actually saw each other, and from
it just went on.
The next morning
after the party in my residence I woke up with a headache and a friend request
on my Facebook. I recalled his name simply because of the fact that it was
plain rare and he had shown me and my friend how to roll cigarettes, an
important ability in a country where a pack of cigarettes costs as much as my
lunch. He began sending me messages and I recall a couple of jewels from our
conversations: I told him I had learnt to roll cigarettes on YouTube and he
replied that if he ever slept with a Peruvian girl and she told him she had
learnt it on YouTube he’d get a heart attack (smooth, really smooth). On
another occasion I teased him calling him a “gay model” and he said he would
show me he wasn’t gay and I’d love it. So in my mind the guy was kind of a
predator I would do better staying far away from. Still, after those weird innuendos
we fell into regular Facebook chat and one day we both found each other without
plans on a Wednesday evening. I told him I’d let him know if me and my friends
decided to go out but when none of them did he asked me to just go by myself.
In reality I was a bit scared of being alone with the guy but my roommate and
my friend told me to go out and have some fun. After I complained that I hardly
knew him my friend grabbed me by the shoulders “You’ve been complaining all
week about how you haven’t partied since you got here, so just shut up and go
out with this guy”. So I meekly went back to my computer and agreed to meet
him.
While he went to
fetch some Muscatel (oh, those times when I only drank sweet wine) I put on
some makeup, but not too much that he would think I was trying to impress him (it
was not a date after all). I hopped on the water bus and asked him where I should
get off to meet him. His text arrived too late and I got off one stop too
early. I replied I didn’t mind walking for five minutes, lit a cigarette and
made my way to the stop of San Basilio. On my way there I tried to remember
bits of information about him he might try to recall about the only time we had
met, but I had nothing, even his face seemed blurry. Whenever I tried to remember
the guy all I got was his Facebook profile picture, an over stylized photo of him
that had made me call him a gay model… Half an hour and four glasses of wine
after we were introduced. That was one of my last memories of that evening. So
when I arrived to San Basilio I was expecting a flashy dude who would only be
trying to woo me, it didn’t worry me, I’d take the free alcohol and run away at
midnight in full Cinderella style.
There were three
guys hanging around the water bus stop, but none seemed slim or tall enough to
be him. I checked anyway, my memory wasn’t trust worthy. When I finally
realized the guy wasn’t there I texted him I was going back home. He called me
silly and arrived a minute later. I don’t remember what he was wearing, maybe a
brown leather jacket with matching sneakers, who knows (he was definitely
wearing that). What I do remember clearly is that his hair was slightly
disheveled, his smile had a tad of shyness to it and his voice was soft. “Hi, how are you, cutie?” What would normally
sound flirty (and I hate flirty men) sounded friendly coming from him. There
was a moment when I wanted to check if this was indeed the guy I had planned to
meet tonight. He was carrying a bottle of wine, so I had to assume that, yeah,
it was him. He looked over my shoulder and asked me where were the rest. I eyed him hesitantly, the rest?
“Aren’t your
friends coming too?”
“Uh, no, I don’t
think so”
“Oh, well, we
might bump into my roommates in Campo anyway”
He led me through
the dimly lit streets of Venice towards Campo Santa Margherita and asked me
about a friend of mine with whom he had been chatting that first night. I told
him he was resting at the residence and that if he wanted he could call him and
see if he wanted to join us, so he texted him. I found his interest in getting
my friends there a bit annoying: “Hey man, you wanted to hang out with me or
with the whole Peruvian gang?” I thought indignantly, but immediately tossed
the thought: it wasn’t a date. I’d take whatever came tonight, either if it was
a tranquil night drinking outside or a wild party with a bunch of strangers,
I’d welcome it all. The fact that he wasn’t acting interested freed me of the
coldness I usually wear to keep men at a distance. We engaged in conversation
and aided by the alcohol I talked without caring what he thought about me. I
wasn’t trying to impress him, he wasn’t trying to impress me; we were just two
souls crossing paths with a bottle of wine. When we run out of alcohol he told
me he had another one at his place, I wasn’t completely comfortable with the
idea of going to his house but I agreed anyway. We found his four Italian
roommates sitting in the kitchen, the only time I’ve seen them all together I
might add. I chatted a bit with them in English, he didn’t catch a word. They
made me laugh and I returned the favor, I liked them instantly. While we were leaving
his house my roommate called me, I had asked her to check on me in case I
needed a getaway call. I found myself having fun so I told her everything was
fine and I’d be getting home a bit late that night. We went back to Campo and we
sat on a bench, we talked about our previous jobs, the reason why we were in
Venice, we talked about so much I can’t say I remember it all. It started
raining and we sat under a door and continued talking like it wasn’t pouring on
us. He showed me his digital work on his iPhone, I said I liked it and it was
true. He told me about his crazy travelling plans, I said I thought they were incredible
and it was true. He said he loved
moments like this when he found himself locked in conversation with someone
interesting instead of mindless drinking in a bar and I said I loved them too
and it was true. He was funny and, by god, when a man makes me laugh I know I
will stick around for more. He was also very human, he talked about his bad
luck and his flaws and I felt he completely accepted them. Again, neither of us
was trying to impress the other so we could be as natural as we wanted to and I
liked that about him. When the rain turned into showers he suggested we went to
his house. Sleeping with him or even kissing him hadn’t crossed my mind yet, I
just thought I truly liked the guy and my perception of someone had never
changed so drastically in a day. When we arrived I realized it was already too
late to go back home and I decided to crash on his sofa. I didn’t even ask him
if I could, I just told him I would. In part it was the alcohol but I felt good
around him, we had just met but I felt a certain familiarity and if he had
never tried to kiss me I know we would have become friends anyway. He was 7
years older than me so the idea of anything developing between the two of us
seemed ridiculous at the time, all I knew was that I wanted his name in my
close circle of friends. But sometimes things happen for a reason and, after we
watched what I could only describe as a crappy movie, at 6am he finally kissed
me. When I wouldn’t let him go further we went to the kitchen to smoke a
cigarette and he told me he liked me and wanted to see me again. Earlier in the
evening we had both said we weren’t looking for anything close to a
relationship, but I also felt I wanted to see him again so when we finished our
cigarettes we went back to the sofa to make out while the sun rose. Two hours
later I told him I had to go and he put on his jacket and walked outside with
me, invited me breakfast on the cafeteria next to the university and then went
home to catch some sleep.
Almost four
months later here we are, it seems longer in a way, it seems shorter in others,
and if I had to decide when the moment when we actually met was I wouldn’t say
it was that day at my residence, nor when we were talking in Campo. It was when
he arrived in San Basilio, and I saw a stranger approaching. I was sober, I was
expectant and when I saw him I immediately felt the night would go well. I’ve
been out with guys and I have agreed to a second date because there was one or
two things I liked about them, but with this one… I just went back to him
because I liked him, plain and simple. I liked the way his gaze got lost when
he talked about something that excited him, his messy hair the next morning,
the shine in his eyes after he told me he liked me, the way his body fit with
mine while we were cuddling in the narrow sofa, the energy that radiated from
him that night… And even if that energy turns off every once in a while when
things go wrong after bad luck strikes and he turns off like a light bulb I
still like him. After his first rough moments of anger that come with
disappointment I got to see him vulnerable and, for someone who is so scared to
show any signs of vulnerability, seeing someone in that state made me develop a
caring side; I had never wanted to take care of someone as I wanted to take
care of him.
Almost four
months have passed and the more I like him the more our time shortens. Life is
a bitch, joining people just to pull them apart. The only thing keeping me from
pondering constantly on the 5,668 miles that will be between us in a
couple of weeks are my impending exams. But I will never regret meeting him, I
will never regret skipping Halloween to eat pizza under a church with him, I
will never regret every party I changed for a quiet movie night at his house, I
will never regret the tears that will come when we finally part our separate
ways, because it will have been worth every second of it. When someone makes
you happy, enjoy the ride while it lasts. But when someone makes you happy, angry, cheerful, frustrated, wishful,
confused, tender, and happy again then, by god, stick with that guy for as long
as you can, and if life decides to be a bitch with you two then hope that one
day, perhaps one day, life will make it up to you. Or you’ll save enough money
for a transatlantic plane ride, whatever comes first. In the meantime I’ll be
cuddling with my Spanish man, tangling our limbs so hard we can’t come apart,
clutching to the memories we have created in these months, stroking the messy
hair he hates and I love, listening to his slowing heartbeat and close my eyes
and wish he’ll be there when I wake up.
