Cute-Meet

bus stop boy girl

What if it ends before I reach my hand and touch, as if by accident, the edge of your palm? What if I don’t make eye contact, and you pass by and we never meet again, meet at all, and that is the end of sleepless nights, never to come, waiting for your calls, caressing your lower back, kissing my way to the nape of your neck, never kissed, because this, whatever this may be, never gets to start. It dies like a zygote on a petri dish; it dies like a dream forgotten before dawn; it dies and I don’t get to see if your eyes are grey or brown, or those greenish type ones that have golden specks all around the irises?

 What if I don’t find you here again tomorrow or the day after?

 What if you are here only for a day, a business trip, a last good-bye to your past, a broken car that has left you stranded in the bus stop, waiting. For me. Perhaps? Waiting for all those words I have harboured in my heart for you, for the one like you, for the one, and you are it, and I don’t know it and won’t know it because I refuse to believe in “cute-meet “and karmatic encounters -because it’s crazy, too crazy and yet it somehow  would make sense if I had the faith; if I trusted the beating of my heart; if I kicked Darwin’s butt and send all his evolution down the drain and trusted that there is someone out there just for me, a love affair designed by angels and gods and you are it, him, and all I need to do to get the ball rolling is look up and smile?

But I can’t.

 Because it’s stupid.

 Because love stories like that don’t happen -they never have, except in the minds of balding, fat, beret -wearing poets with foreign accents. Because life hits hard and it hurts and I don’t want to cry again and I don’t dare to look up and find you there, looking back at me, and the awkward silence, and the half smile, and me pushing my hair behind my ear, and you sitting next to me on the bus, and I asking the time, although time has become irrelevant, non-existent, and Einstein was right, and it’s escaping through my fingers, so fast I feel I am gasping for air to keep it still, this moment frozen, while I find the Juliet in my heart and open my soul to hope, to the belief in the extraordinary: in you and me, in this meeting, in this bus stop, in you sitting, next to me, in the rain threatening from above, ready to fall, any minute now.

I can hear your breathing and sense the musk, the smell that makes you, you, and not another. I swallow hard and feel like slapping myself silly, because things like this don’t happen to people like me, and if they do they end  up badly. And you seem to get closer. I wonder if you like the music from the 50s and I can hear you in my mind, telling me how you are the last rat form the pack and I find myself smiling, at us, strangers in the night, Frank and Dean and trips to the moon and the rain falls, finally. Instinctively you embrace yourself and I want to be your arms: to hug you and mother you and lose myself in your warmth. And if this ends I will cry, weep, bawl, so hard I’ll brew my own storm, mightier and worse than the one encapsulating us, right now, just the two us, under the flimsy bus stop. And I can take it no more. I can’t take all the “ifs” and the “buts”. I can’t take the possibility of a life time, lost. I can’t swallow my own fear and cynicism anymore.

 And I look up.

 

 

 

 

 

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