Romance is the game that can’t be mastered regardless of how many times you play it. You keep falling at the same holes, encountering the same enemies, telling yourself in the next life you will do better but it won’t turn out that way.
I guess for Adam, it was just an one night stand since he didn’t seem to want to meet again. I’ve had way too many, so it was a surprise the encounter could have such effects. I saw it in my face when I looked at the hotel mirror. I saw it on my body when my reflection was showing on the glass window from the 14th floor. I saw it in the nights that I didn’t go back to my room to spend it at either Alyona’s or Marcus’. I saw the bruises his teeth left.
And then I saw him, at the welcome dinner reception last night for this whole event thing that brought me to this coastal city. It lasted one second as my glance was searching for empty seat. He was there, standing, handsome as ever in similar white shirt, tall and still there was something a bit awkward about the way he maneuvered. And then for the next moment, that tall figured disappeared. My stomach sank.
I put pieces together and figured out he was working at this hotel management board. I went out, grabbed my phone and was thinking of pretending to make a phone call and bumped into him, if that were him. But I saw no one.
That happened one more time before I left. He was trying to stay hidden from my sight. I could tell, since the last thing I remembered seeing was his back running toward an empty hallway, which was a total contrast of his smiling sleepy face as I rushed out of his apartment that morning. That night, I went to stay at Marcus’, the talkative and big-eyed French I just met, and we had some lousy sex before falling into the unknown.
Adam’s message arrived. It was from last night. He asked me how the evening was. My heart skipped one beat. And then I didn’t know what to do, ultimately leaving it there.
A few hours later, he sent another message, directly referencing the event. I was struggling a bit before constructing a neutral-sounding response. I wanted to be the usual funny self. But I didn’t want him to know that I liked his strange looking eye gaze and half way kisses. I didn’t want him to know that I felt like I knew a part of his inner side that drunken night.
But then, as it had happened with Matt Loot, or David, or George, or all of them, I couldn’t control my word flow and got aggressive, which led to an argument (Julien would handle it best, with the most patience and equivalent aggressiveness). I called him a whining boy, a hypocrite. And he, as professional, condescending and, somehow, more mature manner, stated his point that he didn’t want to see me anymore. “It was nice meeting you,” the message read.
“We didn’t even meet,” I texted back, referring to his playing truant last night, partly trying to get the last words, partly trying to conceal the bitter urge inside my throat, and mostly trying to see if it could still be saved, that we could still hang out for another drinking night.
And during my past 5 hours off work, which was supposed to be spent on studying for the upcoming GRE test and sleeping to make up for the lack of physical rest this past week, I just jerked myself off, and thought about what happened. I thought jerking myself off would help me sleep, but it didn’t.
And I remembered today was also grandpa’s death anniversary. Number 14. If I were home, we would be gathering around a big dinner. The aunts and uncles would tell stories of how much I was his favorite grand kids as I just smiled silently. And I would go up to the room where his photo was still hanging, close my eyes and say sorry. I always say sorry to him, whenever I fail, or when I was frightened of who I had become.
There was a cop car paving the way for us to go back to the hotel. The people were staring, I didn’t know if it was for rage since we blocked their ways home. Or maybe it was just pure curiosity, “who are those people?” kind of wondering. Or it could be pity. Since somehow, no matter how fancy the places were, how grand the receptions were conceived, no matter how much food you were served and privileges you received, you were still not happy, you were still somebody who followed the lead of another car without a home to go to.
BULBATALKS 