Sensorial Sentimentality from April 2004

Now, I pray this is not too much for you.
Please don't run. This is my retelling of it.

The smell is not pleasant. The noise obtrusive. The subway platform is sprinkled with passengers. I feel as though I can hear a collective sigh as we all gaze deep into the tunnel searching for the next approaching coach home. Alas, no trace. In my case, I am on my way to your home. I catch my self checking my reflection in the C LOCAL across the platform. Not in the window. But in the dark box designated for the train label. It serves me better.

Should I read? Listen to music? And my heart beats. I think people are looking at me. I pace back and forth. Eight steps North. Eight steps South. To the rhythm of my heart. I carry on like this. Only stopping periodically to check my reflection again. As if my nappy wisps of hair have really moved on the platform that seems to be devoid of any air. My coins are dancing the Tarantella with my fingers. I realize I am doing it, and I hate that I am. I can't stand that sound. It reminds me of old people. Of people in line at the grocery store. People from my hometown. People at a bar. People who aren't really listening. I stop.

Inside the train. I sit up straight, without my back touching the seat/bench. A sure sign of my uncomfortableness with my own nervousness and insecurities. I am such a control oriented person, I try to force my heartbeat to match the revolution of the subway wheels. Chung-CHUNG. Chung-CHUNG. To no avail. It disobeys me and continues to patter away briskly. The next thing I know. The street.

Your street. I am walking. Turn left, a gust of wind. "MY HAIR!" I feel like I might have said this out loud. Not at a volume anyone could hear but me, but, nonetheless, still out loud. The homemade bouquet/note I plan to present to you is being ironed out between my hands. Building number 712. Apt #52. "Should I ring the doorbell or just knock?" I think to myself. So, I do both. I also think to myself, "Why can't this door be more of a reflective surface?" You don't answer the door. I am actually glad. It gives me more time.

"Shit!" did I say that out loud? I hope not. There you are with domestic-esque, kitchen thingys in your hands. "God he is so handsome." I tell myself. "God my mom would say, it looks like he makes a good husband." I think to myself. "God stop thinking about your mom right now." "God just stop thinking and say HI."

Pleasantries exchanged. My unconventional bouquet. One kiss. Three more. Each one a little more brave than the other. Yellow looks so good on you. Red looks so good on me. We look good together. Being in the kitchen adds an aroma to the moment. Citrus in the air, bread too maybe. And a warmth. My nerves ease slightly. I detect excitement in your eyes. Could it possibly match mine?

Dinner. Savory. I remember wanting to remember the spice of the pepper mixed with the sweet of the citrus. I remember wanting to remember the moist beads of your forehead from cooking. I wanted to look at more than your ass in those gorgeous pants. I wanted to make you laugh. Typical of my nature. There is so much I want to remember.

My thoughts speed through me. Smell him. Dior? Right?
Kiss him, again. Make a toast. No, too many words. Words can scare people. Just make a memory.

The movie. Hilarious. Interesting. Your laughter sporadic but genuine. Your body pressed to mine. The instantaneous comfort lingering between. Both so unsure of what to do with it.

The bedroom. A place that is yours not mine. A body that is yours not mine. Explorers on an expedition without a map. Where might X mark the spot on him? Where might X mark the spot on me? I believe in buried treasures. I believe in sparkling discoveries. I don't believe they happen in one expedition.

Morning. The cool breeze of the oscillating fan mixed with the warmth of the red sheets. It is a new place. It feels foreign to me too. I try not to be afraid. Even though I may not speak the language, can I get along in this place? I was happy. I was scared. Then I was happy again. Then I was with you. Then my concern, my heart, my mind, and my soul were with you. "Where is he?" I think. "Where should we be?" I question. A kiss good-bye unlike any kiss I have given or received yet. Not bad, but in an all-together different family than all the others.

The day continues. I smell you. It is sense memory. That damn cologne. It is not just in my sense of smell, it is now in my mind's nose. I read your email and write my own. I sigh. Relief that is. A sigh of comfort and joy. Another long breath out. Then I sense something. I need a breath mint. I had chicken with garlic sauce tonight. Thank God for curiously strong mints.
Thank God for curiously strong words.
Thank God for curiosity and strength.

We will talk soon, and let us both fear a little less and feel a little more.