A month ago—no, a few weeks ago—no, however long ago, I declared to my friend that I’m going through the five stages of grief. She took the bait and dutifully asked, “who died?”
“Hope!” I proclaimed. “Hope is dead; I killed hope!”
“…” She recognized my penchant to unleash the bad thespian in me.
“For a long while I believed in hope; I believed I had hope,” the lights are cued to dim. And as the sad violin music starts to play, “I held on to hope, because without it I would know only darkness, in me, around me, covering me. But I realize that it was denial. Now, I’m just angry, because I am made to be alone, without ever experiencing love’s beauty, entanglement, agony, and joy.”
A pause; then followed a fit of mocking laughter, from her and from me. Still though, I was being serious.
A week ago—no, a few days ago—no, however long ago, I met, not one, but two boys. Okay, they were meetings held within the confines of cyberspace, but nevertheless, I met two boys. M and J.
M, on his profile picture, had a sweet smile. I also liked what he had to say, so I replied back to his “wink.”
J radiated warmth and light. It’s safe to say that I was smitten. Taking a chance, I sent him a “wink.” A few hours later, he sent a “wink” of his own and wrote, ‘I liked your pics.’ Something within me jolted.
After a few email exchanges, M and I scheduled to meet face to face last night. But on that day, J called me, while I was at the dentist, to ask if I would be available to meet him that night. We chatted… well, mostly he talked and I stammered, and we both realized that yesterday night was the only time we could meet. Which, by the way, is odd, because I’m rarely busy. But this weekend, I’m gone and next week J’s entertaining a friend who is visiting him from Australia. So, we ended the phone call with my promising him that I’d call him back later. Depending on how my first encounter with M went, I’d call J to schedule to meet then or for some other time.
It’s 10 minutes away—no, it’s 2 minutes away—no, it’s exactly 6 o’clock. I turn on Prince and there standing in front of the shop is M. I’m taken aback. The full ugly face of my vanity rears out and I feel my skin being pulled back. Retreat, turn back, run! M is small! He’s no taller than a 5th grader. He’s tiny. My shallowness trounces his gentle spirit. He seems to be a lot like me, and I dislike him for it too.
It’s 7:23—no, it’s 7:32—no, it’s 7-something. I fiddle through the contact list on the phone until J’s name is highlighted. I push “send,” and two long breaths later, J answers. My usual discomfort on the phone is slightly hidden by my mortifying nervousness in speaking with him, and I pray he doesn’t hear it in my voice. And within an hour, I’m in front of his place. He walks out the door as the light radiates out from behind. It’s the same warmth and light. He makes me two cosmos and dinner, some Asian-esque concoction he made just once before. We eat; we drink. And while playing with his two little munchkin puppies, we chat about my family, his career goals, my dating inexperience, and his bitter-sweet, Romeo-and-Juliet-like relationship with a Japanese boy.
Then I see it. A phantom of this Japanese boy chained heavily to J’s heart. It’s a burden that I understand, but it’s also a heavy load I’ve never known nor had to carry. With that realization, I see the frightening face of beauty, leaving me forlorn and exhilarated. I wonder: is he seeking out another Asian boy to replace the love he lost? Or, is he seeking to impress the pain on to some other as it has been done to him? Either way he chooses, I determine that experiencing either of the scenarios would be exactly what I need.
But the last thing I want is for him to not start this strange, alluring walk with me.
It’s now 2:30. I think I know what I need to do.
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