I find her now, a smile creeps upon my face, I suppress nothing, except the words I wish to flow from my mouth. Her face is perfectly framed, glasses hardly suppressing the classic beauty which stems from the depth of her look, the congeniality of her smile. The purples, reds, oranges, swirl across her face, reflecting warmly from in her eyes, eyes for which mine refuse to leave. Does she feel my heart bursting from my chest, a reaction of a primal nature, a reaction which is uncontrollable, yet I do not want to control it. I can feel my mouth not saying what my brain begs, the classic conversation of friends, the conversation of the arm around shoulders in the cold, not the conversation of the passionate blur in the night. She goes away now, enveloped in the crowd, the grinding, dancing on tables, hands running through quickly lengthening blond locks, not to be seen by here eyes, nor do I want them to watch, to judge? maybe.
Would I want to be with her? Would I want to hold only her hand, study only her eyes, feel only her warm touch?
No. Some days as the nights drag along with the brain jarring explosion of lights in the discos, photographs with girls, the random dance partner, the random short expression of passion, to find myself walking down dim streets as the sun rises from the still stunning mountains, I think maybe I would like someone to walk home to. Someone to share my life with. What would I share? Wanderings maybe, thoughts I wish to keep to myself. I reel from the thought of expressing the internal workings of poor judgments, and loose morals. To share is to give something I no longer wish to give. Something I can no longer justify giving. My romantic notions surely damaged, the cancer like growth of doubt slowing them to a non existence.
She smiled, followed by an expression of laughter foreign, yet addicting. My brain grew high from the auditory exaltation of approval. My Spanish was awful, yet I was still finding a way to entertain, to hopefully impress? The hours passed, with the gentle change of night to morning. My Spanish grew worse as oxygen left my brain, legs cried in exhaustion. I left, walking home, no number, only a first name, never planning to see her again, knowing I would. He face not leaving mine. What would I say next time I saw her? Probably nothing, but place the greeting of a kiss on her cheek then awkwardly continue to work, making sure not to glance at her table, for only fear would find my heart. Why the wall? Why the obstacles? Why the inability to pursue those I love, and the ability to have the unwanted, the random, the rich girl from Santiago, the student from Temcuo, the allure of unique hair.
The weary grow restless.
I slide the food onto the table, piercing blue eyes full on remembrance peering deep into my heart. "I really want to kiss you" I had said a week before, alcohol expressing a truth which I had only let out once before to her. She smiled, followed by a small yet welcoming shrug and "ok." I leaned in for a kiss. The next moment was one for which I live, one for which I close my eyes and attempt to remember in the purity of perception. I pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, my life complete. Why?
Her walk.
She walks, I watch intrigued, baffled, and with the confused nature of a wild horse upon eying a human. She walks with the stride of one who walks in a direction, not sure on where it leads, but sure of her progression toward it. How very unlike me. I walk not knowing if I maintain a direction, unsure of my steps, but continue to take them out of curiosity. It was her walk I first noticed, that day. I sat, head spinning from the first drinks to ever enter my hands legally, and ate a disappointing grilled cheese sandwich. She stood staring at the t.v. the blurs of a intense soccer game bringing the tired morning scene a shot of energy. I watched her with a slight curiosity, her features did not match those of the other Chileans. Her smile slid out occasionally and with a expected regularity. I held the water to my head, the cool droplets of fog rolling down my cheek. I guessed she might be German, Spanish, or some other euro traveler turner waiter, but much like many other times in my life, I was very wrong. Now, standing in front of a table, her dad and mom sitting to either side of her, I heard her voice, It shocked me, yet did not. I could have heard it before, but the music would have been loud. In the clarity of a searing summer day, the kind of day where taking a few steps feels like a mile, and sleeping feels like a chore I heard it for the first time. I turned my back to her and walked out of the sun, a smile forcing itself upon my face.
These stories, these brief encounters, must feel mundane to the observer, but there is a story behind every look, a hidden motivation? A darkened intention? Stories are told by none other than a sudden hand gesture to the right, eyes noticing, drawing the attention away from the moment. A change of words, a glace of the eyes, a deep look combined with a questioning smile, these say more than the mouth. I watch, I wonder, but I refrain from wishing. To wish is to remain stationary in life, to never get to the destination that you may reach. While I may fall in love with moments, I refrain from pursuing an eternity.
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