He cocked his head and laughed. “You’re a liar.”
I lost my ability to argue at that moment and leaned into him, closing my eyes and welcoming the swaying bodies that brought us closer together. When I opened them again we were in the middle of the dance floor and Jonah was looking down at me with intense eyes.
“Leave with me right now.”
“And go where?” I questioned in disbelief. “You’ve lost it.”
“Better to lose it than to lose you,” he growled, bitterness flashing in blue eyes that stared down at me.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Jonah” I replied, and as he brought his face down to mine without preamble and our mouths collided. It became apparent nothing needed saying. His lips eagerly kissed mine as the club and everything in it became irrelevant. I grabbed his shirt fervently, pulling him closer to me as we both gasped for air and a feeling of guilty passion engulfed me. He gently bit my lip as I dug my fingertips into the muscles on his back, desperately searching for the reason that had escaped me momentarily. I finally brought my hand up to his face, trying my best to stop and simultaneously committing the moment to memory. “Don’t,” I panted even though he couldn’t hear me. He put his finger to my lips and kissed me softly again as I melted into him. We remained that way for a while, kissing and hiding amidst a thousand strangers.
“We really have to get back,” I breathed in disappointment.
He grabbed my hair and pulled me in again for a final kiss. “This doesn’t end here,” he snarled and turned to head back.
I remained silent and allowed him to lead the way, knowing all too well we were doomed to fail from the start. I’d been down long distance roads before and they only ended in Heartbreak City. Not to mention the love triangle factor or, in our case, love square. A few minutes later, we were back to our table after being gone for what I assume was a half hour. Jonah told our remaining party the lines at the bathroom were insufferable and we’d been waiting forever, but the looks our dates exchanged right before we sat down said they knew better.
The next morning, my head felt like the universe had imploded inside it and rearranged all the planets in the process. I was lying in bed, still wearing my Asian silk dress, when I felt Olivia shaking me. I tried to lift my head but a sharp throbbing forced it back down immediately.
“Annah,” she said to me, her voice barely above a whisper, “Jonah is leaving, babe.”
“Where is he?” I asked, not sure how we’d gotten home and then suddenly remembering everything, Gabriel’s arms wrapped around my waist as he slept quietly beside me.
“I’m right here,” he replied, kneeling down against the bedside so that I could look at him one last time.
“Jonah . . .” I let my voice trail off and refused to open my eyes. “It was so very good to meet you.”
He smirked and stayed there briefly as I pretended to be falling back asleep. Finally, he got up and knelt down to kiss my forehead. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered in my ear before getting back up and leaving for good.
I mostly kept to myself that afternoon as Gabriel took us to the airport, one hand on the steering wheel and the other intertwined with my own. Olivia waited inside the terminal as I said my final goodbyes to he who’d been so lovely and welcoming during my stay in his land. We made the empty and necessary promises people make to see each other again if life permitted. I allowed my best friend do all the talking while in the customs line as we waited for our flight at a small bar. Between my hangover and Jonah’s absence, I felt the life being sucked out of me by the most powerful of vacuums. I was surprised to find I didn’t even experience my usual pre-flight jitters followed by violent praying, suddenly missing it.
Once we took our seats on the plane, I pretended to want sleep and leaned my head against the window. Olivia, a flight attendant for many years, was accustomed to my irrational fear of flying and subsequent weird behavior when traveling. Soon after, the plane ascended toward Miami and we were shakily moving along to our cruising altitude.
“Are you alright?” Olivia asked when she saw my feet tapping nervously against the carpeted floor.
“Yeah,” I squeezed her hand, hoping she believed me. “You know how terrified of flying I get.”
“Don’t worry,” she squeezed my hand as the bumpy ride continued its course. “You’ll be alright.”
I turned to her with watery eyes and squeezed back. “Have I told you that I love you today?” I inquired our little inside joke since we were teens.
“No, you have not.”
“I love you,” I whispered as both the plane and I trembled, turning to stare out the window and cursing air pockets. I began breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly just how the therapist who treated my aerophobia had taught me years before. At some point, my heart rate resumed a normal pace and the plane stopped shaking, yet the turbulence in my heart never ceased as I thought of Jonah every minute of the way and clouds filled with tears threatened its ominous downpour.
I’m Not Cut Out for This
There are times in my life when I feel blessed to simply have a job that allows to pay for bills and that couch I bought on credit, which has slowly grown on me, while I push my dreams of famosity and riches in a drawer I only open when feeling overly optimistic about the wonders of being alive. I live check-to-check and sometimes eat Ramen Noodles, while other times I can splurge on ground turkey and those plum tomatoes from Whole Foods I love so damn much. My alarm rings at seven and I snooze until eight, arriving late every morning at the office as I look around in the hopes no one’s noticed. There’s bad coffee and faxes and co-workers who hate me and wish to see me perish, as they smile to my face through gritted teeth stained with hypocrisy. There are meetings and cold sandwiches and the occasional Diet Coke I steal from the break room when no one’s watching. There are flip charts and projectors and data that requires analyzing before the week is over. It is this mundane sweetness that makes the corporate world go round and in spite of myself, I am happy.
Other times, there is this.
As mentioned, I began to pine away for literary stardom while working for The Church of Jesus Christ (which I quit a few months into blogging), and praying for a miracle every night before I went to sleep about three years before turning 30. After a few crappy jobs, I began to work for a political team in the healthcare industry as a temp, with the hopes of getting hired on a permanent basis if I could just prove myself indispensable with my sharp wit and phenomenal attention to detail. Because we were in the heated portion of a campaign that would reach its zenith around the upcoming primaries, things around the office had been incredibly hectic.
One Friday afternoon, my boss asked me to find a “nice resort” for three of our head honchos, who’d be coming down to South Florida for a company retreat in the spring. After a few hours of research and some exorbitant rates, I found the perfect five star resort. I couldn’t believe such a beautiful place could only be $189.00 a night and felt quite satisfied with myself as I copied the link into an email and forwarded it to my boss. Five minutes later, she replied.
Her: Is this you trying to be funny?
Me: What do you mean?
Her: Do you realize what you just sent me?
Me: The link to the Royal Palms Resort. It’s beautiful, no? Five stars.
Her: Of course it’s beautiful, but I’m certain top management isn’t into *that* sort of ambience for their retreat. Go into the website.
It turns out that the Royal Palms Resort is indeed the sort of place one would go to escape it all. That is, if you were exclusively gay and seeking the company of other stressed professional males. I am guessing that in my field, a few gentlemen wouldn’t mind benefitting from the heart shaped Jacuzzis and other fabulous amenities a place like the Royal Palms must certainly offer. Yet something tells me that wasn’t the right approach toward securing the permanent employee status I coveted so much.
Picture property of the Royal Palms website and
uh, yeah . . . that’s it for now.
Just Friends
The phone rang in the distance and I turned off the blow dryer. Few things irritated me more than being interrupted while in the bathroom. Grabbing my cell, I was taken aback by the name flashing in front of me before pressing the green button. “Jonah,” I answered, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I thought you’d be surprised,” I could hear him smile on the other end. “How’s the birthday girl doin’?”
“She’s well,” I laughed. “Maybe a little terrified of turning 25 but I guess that’s the quarter-life crisis, right?”
“Quarter-life crisis, indeed,” he paused. “So tell me what I’ve missed.”
“Well . . .” I let my voice trail off. It’d been six months since our stars collided in Madrid, a friendship instantly born out of three fateful days away from the intricacies of real life. I returned to Miami to gainfully employ myself once again and find an apartment. He toured the rest of Europe for two months and sent pictures when he remembered. We didn’t talk much during that interval, our methods of communication a simple text here and there saying “Hello” or “How goes it.” Since then, he’d taken up martial arts and hunting, a sport fitting for a country man (even if I completely disapproved of it). One could say I’d been busy myself, meeting the nicest guy in the world two months after coming home, and accepting his proposal four months later when he asked me to be his wife. I had the slight notion I was supposed to feel giddier about becoming a blushing bride, yet all I felt was a quiet despair that grew with each passing day. I attributed my uneasiness to cold feet, and the fact that I’d only known my fiancé for a very short period of time, convincing myself it would all be okay if I just moved steadily forward.
When pleasantries were out of the way, he wasted no time in explaining the reason for his call. “So I wanted to ask you something . . .”
“I’m all ears,” I interrupted him, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of nausea.
“Want to come to Australia with me in the spring? My parents have a timeshare there and remember how we talked about going down under? It’s my treat, so declining isn’t an option.”
It was hard to hate someone with means that far exceeded your own when you were madly in love with them and couldn’t quite find the words – or balls – to tell them. I sighed and said nothing, the weariness in my soul making speaking all but possible.
“Is that a yes?” he prompted.
“I wish it were, Jonah,” I swallowed hard and fired away with more confidence than I felt. “I’m getting married next November, so a trip of any kind is probably a bad idea.”
I heard him clear his throat on the other end and snort. “Of course you are,” he exhaled after a while. “What’s his name?”
“Vin.”
“What kind of a name is that?”
“A nice name,” I retorted. “A nice name, for a nice guy.”
“So you’re doing what you swore you’d never do, huh? Taking the easy way out. Annah’s getting married to a nice guy named Vin because she’s having a quarter life crisis and doesn’t know what to do about it.”
“I’m doing what people are supposed to do as they get older, Jonah. Meet someone who is good and will take care of them. Get married. Have babies. What else is there?”
“Nothing that you’d know off,” he growled and the line went dead.
A beep notified me the call had dropped and I sat on my bed staring at the phone for what seemed like an eternity but was only minutes. That evening, he sent me a mostly insincere message as an offering of peace:
I am happy for you, even if you caught me off guard. You’ll certainly be missed in Sydney, but I suppose we’ll get by without you. When you’re good and ready to send out the invites, I hope mine doesn’t get as lost as you seem to be at the present moment. Love you, J.
As I finished reading the last words, it was evident he’d intended it to be comforting but instead felt like the kind of blow one would give their opponent when they’re not looking. Months later, it still stung like hell, and as I wove through the intricacies that come with undoing huge mistakes, he placed 9,000 miles between us and swore me off for good once he returned on home.
You Should Probably Have That Threesome
Being in your twenties is usually a sweet ride, especially if you’re blessed with the gift of real estate independence. Before I decided rescuing four stray dogs was a good idea and moved to a house with a backyard, where they carry on their doggie shenanigans, I lived in a fabulous apartment I still weep for, especially when I have to shell out $30 for some teenager to cut my lawn every other month. Said apartment was part of a community mostly comprised of older couples and what I like to call, “the settled folk.” When a young girl moves in and has 10 to 12 people over on most weekends, it is hard to prove that you are a functioning member of society and not some hussy who turns tricks in order to pay her rent. It takes effort to uphold your righteous persona, which may often entail baking your neighbors cookies or carrying their groceries while you casually mention you volunteer with the elderly.
Living on your own sometimes means your house will become a makeshift brothel for buddies who still live at home with their parents. Meaning, there are times where your friends will get busy in your guest bedroom because paying for a hotel is expensive and why-would-you-waste-$40-when-Annah’s-house-is-totally-free-and-has-the-good-beer? I didn’t mind these scenarios on most occasions, mostly since it entailed going out, and the friend who intended to use my quarters buying me drinks as a “thank-you-for-helping-me-get-laid” sort of gesture.
Quite often, being wingwoman to this sort of situation is great fun, as long as you get to pick someone up yourself once your friend is settled with her new conquest. Twiddling your thumbs alone while drinking a vodka tonic in a corner wondering how the hell you ended up there is about 10 notches less fun. Even more miserable than that, is your friend deciding to take her new love back to your apartment and getting stuck having drinks with his ugly short friend in your balcony while the other two finish the deed. This was the case when my friend Aria picked up a very cute guy who played basketball for UM and I was left to entertain his less-than-charming amigo.
“I’m an aspiring reggaeton singer,” he told me as I surveyed a bottle of Patron in the liquor cabinet and wondered if six in the morning was too early to do shots. The other two were getting it on in the spare bedroom, and I reluctantly watched Daddy Yankee’s “first single” on YouTube while contemplating slitting my veins vertically with a butter knife.
“It was really, nice to meet you,” I whispered as soon as the video ended and stifled a fake yawn, retreating to my room and locking the door behind me just in case he tried to murder me in my sleep.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get better, I got woken up four hours later by the guy my friend had slept with, apologizing for waking me so early but needing a ride back to his car while Aria pleasantly slept behind closed doors after large quantities of the horizontal mambo.
“This is your friend, right?” I asked the first guy about the reggaeton singer sleeping blissfully on my couch.
“Yeah, that’s Jackson.”
“Uh-huh. And will Jackson be going home with you as well?” I inquired.
“Of course,” he responded sheepishly and woke up the dude.
And so we all made our way down the apartment stairs and I prayed the whole thing ended quickly so I could get back to bed.
But as I descended on down and the sun raped my eyes with its shiny splendor, I realized my hair was a mess and the previous night’s makeup was still layered on my face, while two dudes trailed behind me talking about kinky sex.
And at that precise moment, my next-door neighbor was returning from getting the mail and I prayed she didn’t hear what Asshole #1 was explicitly depicting to Asshole #2.
But of course she did.
And this, boys and girls, is how you shit all over years of careful attempt
s at acting civil around the older members of your living community.
The lesson? Being responsible hardly ever pays off.
Cold Feet Creek
I held up a sunflower and examined it carefully that January morning at Field of Flowers, the shop I’d chosen to decorate my impending November wedding with Vincent. My brow wrinkled in disappointment as each choice failed in measuring up to the occasion, each petal unfit for the internal agony I was feeling.
“That’s a very unconventional choice for a wedding,” the attendant came over to me and interrupted my thoughts, “but I’ve heard they bring happiness.”
“Sunflowers are so fucking tacky,” my gay best friend, Marcus, announced matter-of-factly and stuck his finger down his throat in mock regurgitation.
I placed the flower back in its bucket and continued to peruse the store, inhaling aromas I hoped would invoke the giddiness blushing brides were meant to experience. Daisies lined the wall as well as orchids, lilies, roses of various shades, tulips, and at the very end, as if somehow too insignificant to be in the spotlight, my favorite. I picked up three carnations and smiled, Marcus shook his head forcefully in disapproval and the attendant took some notes.
“Would you like these to be your filler flowers?” she inquired tentatively.
“No,” I stated and turned to her, “I want lots of them in pink, all over.”
“Annie,” my friend interrupted and batted his false eyelashes at me sweetly, “those ugly weeds are for street vendors and empty vases at the office, honey pie. Don’t you think Vincent would prefer something with a little more flair for your nuptials?”
Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story Page 9
