I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
At 1 a.m. snow is swirling with the wind in a violent dance across the harbor. I am at the lobby, waiting. It's the same situation in a different setting - substitute night for day and winter for summer, this could be New York in June again.
I turn around and see him slam the taxi door shut. He grins when he sees me and I grin back. He doesn't wait for a hello - this time the nervousness that flavored our last meeting refuses to make an appearance - and he kisses me with familiar passion. His hands grab at my hair and I am surprised by this new violence. We stumble into the elevator, aware but uncaring of the scandalized stares from the receptionists.
We don't even pretend to be strangers anymore. I recognize his body, his lips, the smell of his skin. The chain with the golden crucifix still glints - it feels colder, although that could just have been my imagination transposing the outside chill onto the metal.
We don't say a word as we strip the layers of clothing between us. I laugh when he finally says something in the middle of kissing me, "A year and a half is too long."
We pretend we are in love. I sleep with my head on his chest and wake up to his lips on mine. As fireworks blazed in the midnight sky to usher in the new year we make love pressed up against the window, our palms steam-printed onto the foggy glass.
We dance the nights away, urged on by the crowd - we are easily the best dancers in the city. He plays with my hair, reads me poetry, whispers in my ears as my fingers dig into the muscles of his back. We kiss on the streets, my head cool against an icy brick wall, his warm hands calming the storm in my stomach.
We both have changed. Like me, he suffered heartbreak. Unlike me, his faith in romance escaped untouched. We both have changed, but it seems that our mutual transformation was in sync - we changed at the same rate, and at the end our alterations neutralized each other.
We fuck standing up against the wall. I leave bite marks on his throat. In between thrust he says to me in a ragged whisper, "I wish you spoke French."
Over espressos we debate the merits of intercultural relationships. We both agree that it made for a more interesting life, but in attempting such a complex connection we risk overlooking the subtle nuances only a shared native tongue can convey.
We toast to 2005, simple human connections and Madrid.
This is lust turned upside down by the looking glass, and if you don't pay attention you could be duped into thinking it looked just like love. We both knew what it is and what it isn’t; that knowledge kept our hearts safe from harm as the mirage disappeared like mist when we walked away from each other like we did more than a year ago.
