Bret & I decided to wake up early to queue for Jose Gonzalez’s tickets since some comments about “camping in advance” on Facebook did make me feel insecure. Turned out he was there even earlier than I was, in simple sporty clothing which I liked, modest smile and a rather bigger belly. Next to him was his now former girlfriend whom we used to refer as “Ms Chastain” as an inside joke.
I had thought about going to the concert with him, alone, partly because none of my friends were interested, partly because he had just broken up with his girlfriend of the past decade, partly I was secretly plotting a plan of finding out if he was interested in men at all. I remember 5 years ago, when we first met in that cozy classroom, it seemed he couldn’t help trading eye contact with mine, while I couldn’t help catching his boxers sticking out of his jeans demonstrating the curvy lines embracing his rear end. Or maybe it was just in my head.
I guess I was the only one coming out of the place with only one ticket. I tried to past the crowd as quickly as I could since those looks from other bystanders seem to fueled with sympathy. “He’s alone.” Or mostly, all that noise was just in my head.
I texted Joey to share the news, to hang on to that joy of being one of the first to get tickets, and came the very same response when I told him about Leonard Cohen’s passing: “Who’s that?” I tried to tell myself it’d be unreasonable to blame him for not being able to share the moment with me. He’s the computer guy, not the music guy. Again, it was just in my head.
I also spotted Will in that crowd. He must have been there even earlier that I was since he was the 2nd in line. Still in the same hoodie and silver left earring when I first saw him, still tall and handsome, but that magic was no longer there. Probably it was never there in the first place but just existed in my head.
That night, I was trying to tease Joey by calling him James and sending over lines that were deemed romantic, which I made up on the spot and might be recycled for lyrics someday. He’s a guardian of such kind of romance, the kind that I thought were cheesy and overdone.
“This is from your book (referring to the one I’m reading)?” he asked.
“Because I don’t know where else you could get it from.”
I guess, as much of a romance believer he is, he knows how to deliver the most disappointing answer. Does he even know me at all? For the last time of the day, I blamed my wildest imagination, one that has failed the person it belongs to so many times. Or maybe, it’s the other way around, that that person has failed the his own imagination by not being able to live up to it.