Departure. Passport- check.

The sun is too low today. Perhaps, it too is hungover. It teases me though- promising me more minutes here. My dog’s leash is wrapped loosely around my toe and the sand is kissing my bum. I am sitting cross-legged and I peer at my beach’s small expanse as I write this. The tractor’s combs teach me that perhaps they were on to something when they conceived the small zen-garden trays of sand.

This is my moment. It always is. I wish work didn’t await me. I could be more productive here. But, politics dictate otherwise—not to mention this is my last day per contract. Whether one more days exists escapes me. The topic only hovers. I haven’t pressed the point. I want to leave or perhaps, stay. More freedom, less pay. I don’t need a New York salary anymore. I have finally let go of my overhead, and have subletted by New York duplex. I hold on to memberships-Zipcar, Gym. I suppose the commitment phobe is procrastinating.

I am going to New York next week to ship belongings for the first time in my year here. Funny, how losing my job made me to decide to commit.

I fear that hormones and being amongst my “kind” will prompt me to change my mind. Ctrl-z.

I push that thought aside. I crinkle the sand between my toes. Stay.

The sun is coming to—so am I. I need more coffee though. Last night’s memories return. Restaurant Opening. Cameras. Never-ending glasses of wine. Black label for him. Two bottles always stored in his breast pocket—just in case.

A dinner after. With a girl from Spain, now living in Punta Cana. Exotic. From afar she receives a jealous woman’s criticism. Tight dress. Comfortable with her sexuality. These are things that should not be punished. I am the opposite. My back exposed. My dress long. A rich blue. We complement each other perfectly. And I am invited.

Private jet. Venezuela. I know nothing else. The plane leaves in a few hours. The invite teases me and makes me choose. I would leave the office how many hours early. And what is my excuse?

If I stay, my weekend will commence with Veuve Cliquot’s Rose Festivity- I must wear pink they say. Saturday evening, I will lace myself into a black corset. Stockings. Garters. A constraint- a far departure from my daytime hours where I will ride horses through the mountains and roll in the waves of the ocean.

I leave my sand. I now post this from my desk. The weekend’s options dance in my mind. 

The jet flirts with my spontaneity. The unknown awaits. Decisions. Fuck, I have ten minutes. 

fishies

I hope you don’t stay

I lay in my bed. Perpendicular. Every which way. My body, immobile. Unable to get up. It has returned. Clouds of indifference. A thick fog over motivation. I was asked about this unmentionable the other week. I happily noted, dormant. I suppose I said so too soon.

It has returned. With increasing attendance. The voice in my head to escape, a devil on my shoulder. I forgot how powerful he was. Its habits, seemed long removed. But, now they are here again. Sunday and Today. I dealt with the consequences. I fear that this voice will grow louder if I don’t stop it now. But, how?

Why am I so sad that I must escape? Why can’t I logically recall in those moments that the short escape has far worse consequences.

Addiction. It’s a curious thing. The fuel behind it is often not the chosen escape, be it drugs, alcohol, food, sex, etc. The addiction lies in the decision. The decision provides one with control, when life seems to be offering none. An addict is calmed before they reach their drug. Soothed by the option- the voice speaks and they imagine their acquiescence. The drug is support. Self-provided. You need not be vulnerable to someone else..

An ability to mute thoughts. Stand at the helm. 

Numb. Escape. Control. 

 

I think I would prefer tears.

Pet peeves intrigue me

Venting:

I simply cannot understand why the cleaning lady must come clean my desk while I am at it. Every morning, without fail. She waits until I am in my office, to come. I must stop what I am doing while she takes her Fabuloso soaked rag across my desk. My papers moved. I must then get up from my seat . . awkwardly dancing with the phone cord while she does this and that. I just don’t get it!!! 

And I don’t get why it bothers me so so much.

I have a feeling that pet peeves can be a window to your fundamental beliefs. (Similar to how personalities we dislike often reflect something in ourselves.) So, I have decided to start paying attention to all things that elicit strong emotions one way or the other. I discovered this weekend, something about the act of “Waiting.”  I was six years old, stranded at daycare. Waiting, always waiting. As a adult, I simply hate being early . . . 

Happy Monday . . .

Mr. Marry

I suppose I didn’t respond with what you wanted to say. Your current words. Light, funny. You write the word “Phew.” and “I guess I was just trying to figure out stuff that was happening, so what the hell I thought I’d ask.” You also tell me you are going to DR, then Thailand, and perhaps, moving to Spain with the guys in July. WHAT?

Ok, so a note to all. I know what KidRobot is doing. His reactions would be fine had I wrote him I wasn’t interested, that I didn’t think about us as well. But, that’s not the truth. Clearly, my words were not what he wanted to hear. But, now his emotions are so indifferent he has sealed their fate. I want to say “Fuck you.” I know his indifference is a safety blanket, a retraction of the emotions, an attempted way to save the potential hurt. But, again, fuck you. If you are a man, stand by what you say until we discuss it and figure our own truths, together. You are proposing being partners and you cannot even do this?

So, it’s not that I am angry, but I write this as a note on the decisions we make and the games we play when dealing with the heart. He chose a route I do not recommend. I suppose perhaps, all routes arrive at the same destination, but I think less of him for his withdrawal. For his inability to stand by his words. His emotions. There is a reason I hate the words I love you and why I prefer my bouts with “unavailables”.

So, I thank you for leaving me empty, leaving me distrusting.

“The question is: what will you create?”

I am loving Mead’s words posted below. (Excerpts taken from “The Secret to Being Insanely Creative” by Johnathan Mead.)

You are already an artist.

You don’t have to create exquisite sculptures or breathtaking sonnets. You’re creating all the time simply by being alive. Every decision you make, every time you move, breathe, or speak you are creating. In fact, you couldn’t not create even if you wanted to. It’s simply impossible.

Just think about it: you’re the main character in your life story. Each day you develop and further the plot of your masterful performance. You interact with other secondary characters in your story that support your role. These are your friends, your lover, family and coworkers. They’re the supporting actors or actresses in your drama, and they also help mold your life’s narrative.

You can change the course of your story at any time by making new choices and walking down new paths. You can drop a secondary character and choose new ones, if they’re not supporting the story you’d like to create (except, perhaps, family members).

You constantly direct the play called your life; and that makes you a magnificent artist.  So if you’re creating your life all the time, wouldn’t it be more empowering to view yourself as an artist, rather than simply a passively living person? 

. . .

So what do you want to create? A film noir or a fairytale? You can choose a daring adventure or a comedy. It’s up to you as long as you accept that you’re the artist. You’ve got the brush, it’s up to you to put down the colors you like best.”

His words explain why I was happier with the prospect of losing my job. The situation was forcing me to switch gears and create. However, for some reason, my job is reclaimed– I, too necessary to unleash. Every hour last week sucked the life out of me. I know I can still choose to leave, but it was easier when the decision was made for me. Break ups are hard.

The initial knowledge of being fired allowed me to see a new future. I covered my ears to the “economy’s state.” I couldn’t be assaulted with the “if you have a job, you are lucky.” I had to believe I could change as easy as the wind. That something would be waiting to catch me. Invigorate me.

But then came the extension. And the exhaustion. Too tired to retire my days and create a new resume to bridge industries. The nights of this past week were a fog. A fog of somehow making it safely into bed. Not turning to that dormant addiciton. And my job continued. The hours were painful. I need to leave.

However, maybe the extension was also a gift–there was a reason in my story that the days have continued. I ended meetings last night that have the power to change everything. That could allow us to create something tangible as opposed to only the clouds of smoke that we now blow. Optimism Lies.  Parked outside American Airlines for thirty minutes, the other player and I, sat and created. Like two lovers who didn’t want to part. I bridged the gap and searched for why our companies were idle in their negotiations. I, am the only one that speaks their language. I will meet with my boss Monday and say I need to run the show. His answer, will determine my new path. 

And now, I am up, 7am on Saturday morning, happy to respond to emails and work. Tasks that require mind games to complete during working hours as of late. I suppose I lack focus when I know that I am simply pushing papers and stroking egos . . . 

Crossroads

I had reached the end of the highway. Before me, the options sprawled. The fear of the unknown. However, now my highway continues. And I am more exhausted than ever. I cannot figure out who laid the concrete and why. Don’t things happen for a reason? The fear, I prefer. I am bored here.

The remote chance of an us

I often post moments. Snapshots of my life. Perhaps, it is time to share more. Provide some links. Although, it will not be now. But, I will share this.

As I ride the emotional rollercoaster that is Caballito, many are riding the rollercoaster that is me. I will update the cast to this extent, but I am held awake, with an overdue response to a particular email.

KidRobot-the friend I have had for the longest in New York.

It was 2004, I was walking to my Vespa. The treelined streets of Carroll Gardens. Tall, dark, and handsome, he was walking a black lab. We passed eachother. Ten steps later. We both turned around. I was smitten. We dated. He was in the process of getting divorced and I turned my emotions off deciding we were brought together for “support.” I was dealing with an addiction and he, a newfound freedom. He loved me, he said. His emotions given, but met my deaf ears and walled heart. Drama was our parting. Reconnected as friends. He had fallen in love again. Then, I was living in Florida- a three day business trip turned into two months. We spoke and we flirted, shared. I dreamed. And fell.

Fell hard. Down. When I returned to New York, he was an emotional disaster from his break up. One I thought he had long before. Many years as friends thereafter. Last year, we went to Tulum, a group of friends. He told me he never stopped loving me. We returned to New York. And the foundation that was my life had crumbled. I shut off. Easier to fall alone. And took this job in Puerto Rico. This year he came to California with me for Christmas. And said, he felt like he came home for the first time. We slept in the same bed. Side by side for a week. An arm was not even placed around me.

And on December 30th I returned to PR. A package was sent. A card and Tuesday morning, the morning after my fight with Caballito, an email of which I will provide tidbits:

” . . . On one hand I feel tough, complete, whole but at the same time very vulnerable – especially with you. I feel so cliche, like one of your many guy friends “bearing his feelings” or telling you how “you’re the one” – I never really went that far because of listening to you and being afraid to end up just being another guy who bears his feelings  . .

I broke up with Julia and sabotage things not because I am relationship adverse or because I don’t want to be close to anyone, but because if there’s a chance somehow of us, I want to keep myself open – for that chance, however remote it often seems to be. . . 

I know this sounds like ranting but I say this because I feel like I am trying to run away from feelings, trying to avoid feeling a certain way because I am terrified. I am terrified by what will happen, by what will happen to us – and by what you will say. . . . 

I say this because I am terrified to discover the truth about myself and about you.”

 

Refuge

I write this as I listen to Fonseca’s “El Arroyito.” I recall his smile and that moment.

I am in the restaurant below my apartment and my phone rings—it is Caballito. The background noise drowns the words, the words I have painfully anticipated. I bolt for the door—that is bolted. I am trapped. My breathing is heavy. And I fumble insanely, making a scene. Success. The warm air welcomes me. But the music and insufferable voices are simply replaced with the admonishment of the wind and an uncommon passing of trucks. I anticipate a siren next.

I retreat to a small refuge in the building’s façade. His tone is unyielding, his words abbreviated. And his anger, seething—horses’ nostrils flared.

I grasp for pieces of his diatribes, clumsily threading them together. “Enrique tells me everything.” I cannot comprehend what he is saying.

It was 4am. As Enrique rose from my sea of white and the athletes left my apartment, my thoughts shifted to Caballito. Despite my ditching him, he was and is the center.

Caballito and Jorge, his friend of 25 years, were walking to his car. The athletes to theirs. I lingered on the phone, waiting for the bang of the inevitable collision. Caballito proposed to pick me up. He hung up and I heard nothing more that evening of a collision. They arrived. Impatiently waiting, Jorge was sent, or came on his own accord, up my stairs. He grabbed me. Kissed me, or tried. I get in the car and we drive to Caballito’s. Where we danced to Fonseca. Where we had that moment.

Later, Jorge followed me to Caballito’s bed where Caballito was sleeping. When he too laid down, I left and chose the couch for the evening. Caballito awoke to put his arm around me and discovered Jorge. After which, Jorge left the bed and discovered me on the couch. He crawled behind me. His arm around me, spooning me and cuddling. I was three hours with sleep. Exhausted and half dreaming, I didn’t quite contemplate the light brushes against my shoulder. It was soothing and it felt amazing. Until, the hand traveled south and I was extracted violently from sleep as he discovered (luckily, just barely) I wax. I jumped up quickly. AHH

I recalled the evening. How much Jorge tried. I recalled the circles I danced and the attention I received. I sadly thought how insignificant I must be. What a statement when one’s friends, their kin, pursue you. I was angry at Caballito. Disgusted at Jorge and exhausted at his continued attempts. But, understanding. What boundaries does a non-relationship give?

In the morning, Caballito drove us home. He interrogated my leaving with the athletes. He told of the collision. And this is when he gifted me his succinct bye. Ok, so what. He knew I left with them. It wasn’t done on the sly.

But it was something. 38 hours. Of waiting. Until my phone rang in that restaurant. I couldn’t comprehend. What I did not know.

I am in my refuge. Phone to ear. FIghting off the noise. And Caballito’s words unveil that something happened. Something more than vodkas, waves, and my apartment. I am furious. Confused. Yet, enlightened to the anger, the countless hours of waiting. He says more. Something happened. I raise my voice. I walk in circles. “What I had a threesome with two 19 year old boys?” No, something with just Enrique. “And where was Marco?”

I then notice, I am on display. My refuge, a floor to ceiling window to the restaurant’s VIP table. They stare. I am but a movie. I turn away. To find I am imprisoned by the wind. My apartment steps tease me. I calculate the run, but my purse is sitting at the bar.  I am having one of those public moments. Causing a scene. And I cannot escape for the fear that if I lose Caballito in this moment, I will lose him forever.

My words are strong. My voice frantic. In disbelief. We are fighting. Both. Screaming. This is an extreme first. I plead, hold on, for one minute. I run. Grab my purse. A spectacle.

My apartment. Dark. Empty. The ocean screams. The ocean is, for the first time, not calming. I, like a well-trained sailor, shutter the walls of windows. And I learn that Enrique told Caballito of an incident. Boasting of something in my hallway bathroom. My words stop. I don’t question. I don’t dispute. I cannot tell Caballito his son, his kin, his athlete, his confident, lied. I do however, recapitulate the evening, or rather from leaving the pool to arriving in his car. Jorge happened after. Thank god.

My story disproves Enrique’s lie. But, I am also willing to step down. I need not win this battle. I pale in significance. My phone beeps. It is dying. The avengers will not relent.

I laid, my head on the marble. Curled, like a fetus, I cling to my phone plugged into the wall. Beeping. Don’t die. I had waited 38 hours for this moment. The fight ended with me thanking him for his call. I told him while I was sorry he was angry, I prefer it to indifference. To him not caring. “If I didn’t care I would not have been so livid that I couldn’t speak to you for two days . .  . I could not call you yesterday, because I couldn’t have lived with what I would have said.”

I am not a seeker of drama, not a screamer. Yet, I loved our fight. A smile formed. The first time in 38 hours.

In the conversations since, the lie, the evening, remains unmentioned. “Movie night?” he asks. “Yes,” I smile. A lie will watch us from the distance.

 

The evening

The evening. It was Saturday. 

I am the most beautiful girl in the room. The most beautiful in all of Puerto RIco. I am told every time I frequent here. It is not the truth, but nevertheless, the mouths that say it, genuine. The pool reflects purple and green. The night is perfect. The lights shine in the crystal of the champagne glasses and in the eyes of those searching to get laid. The music echoes from the lobby. I sit. My shirt. Intricate as it ties around me. Requiring no brassiere. Exposing my tanned back. Tight jeans. And unnecessary heels for my 5’11” frame. The weather, warm, yet not humid. The energy and laughter, effortless. Is this intoxication or good energy? The answer does not matter.

It is here where I feel admired. If only he knew, I so often think. But tonight, he is here too. Perhaps his eyes will see it, and he will think I am pretty, be grateful for the knowledge that I choose him. And I ponder, do I do so stupidly? He is just a few feet away, engaged in conversation. He watches me from the corner of his eye. At our cabana, the odds are in my favor. Enrique, Marc, Luis, Jorge and Benicio. I welcome the attention. But they are merely circles I dance around him, he the center.

His two athletes, akin to family, are too beautiful. Polite. Perfect. Dark hair and chiseled features. I cannot fathom them only 19. Yet, any older and they would be too aware of their power and I would be distracted. We want to dance. The expensive ambience too sophisticated for our desires. We propose leaving. After a round of drinks, Caballito says. An hour passes and we are on our way. But then the girls we picked up cause some disarray and need to stay.

An apartment soiree no longer so appealing. I suppose we are staying. Enrique, his athlete, his “brother”, comes to me and says, “will you drive us to our car?” He says it quietly, from a few feet a way. I know our cars are equidistant. My curiosity piqued. I will return I tell Caballito. Jorge, his bestfriend, offers me his accompaniment. I decline–not gracefully.

The athletes and I are at my apartment. The ocean pounding against the rocks. We are sitting. Vodkas. Talking. Horses. We speak about Caballito with no relationship significance. Aware of their loyalty, their kin, I wonder, were they flirting?—knowing Caballito has likened me to nothing? He’s gay they said. Or was it an interrogation, an attempt to gather fodder.

Enrique says, it’s time to go. The phone rings. It is Caballito. As Enrique leaves, he peaks into my bedroom. His eyes widen. My gigantic posted bed. A sea of white sheets. The ceilings high. The ocean. He sits . . . on my bed. I am not sure what then was said. 

 

To be cont.

Gift me with anything but indifference

The moments in which I am frustrated exceed those that I am not. Was it not but a week ago where we reconciled? Where my body had one of those nights she will never forget?

 Last night you danced with me to Fonseca. Moments before, Jorge spun me around effortlessly; my legs and hips performing the salsa perfectly. But with you, I had two left feet. You had patience. I stepped on your sock. Don’t move your hips. Just your feet. Painful minutes with no success. You stole a kiss. And my heart skipped a beat.

I suppose dancing is not necessarily an indicator of the rhythm of two in bed. Despite our unlikey matching, last night, I saw you for the first time as a future partner. You were smiling, singing and I felt just how much I adore you. How attracted I am to the wrinkles that surround your eyes. I would be willing to make you mine. Perhaps, our wedding could be without the newlyweds’ dance?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

The night was far from perfect. Yet, that moment was. But, it, just a moment. As are we. Infrequent moments. Rotten milk more consistent.

And now I sit. In thoughts, recurring, more common. Frustrated. Wondering. Telling myself this isn’t worth it. It should end.

As succint as your parting bye this morning. I stared at the rearview mirror as I departed the back seat, searching for more. Your glasses hid your eyes. And you offered nothing else. I called moments later. You didn’t answer. I assume you are angry. No, I hope you are. Your indifference would hurt more. Anger received by indifference. The sum of which may be our end should you be an indifferent man unwilling of the effort. Am I this naïve? I, a masochist? Tell me I am wrong. Tell me I am worth at least this. I wait. With each ding and vibration of my phone, I jump. But it isn’t you.

It has been 24 hours now. 

Like an addiction. I search for the willpower. To refrain. At this point, all I want, a conversation. Perhaps, gift me with our end.