Revealing Weekend

A weekend has passed and thoughts swim like the fishes of a coral reef. Many but none stands out, but collectively they are the dynamo of this weekend passed. Instead of writing about what happened, in some boring prose form, I will just lay down my thoughts, each a fish that is important in its own right but stands in equal terms as other thoughts. I am in the train now. Usually I fall asleep on this first morning of the work week. But my mind is scattered and restless. Those fishes of thoughts still swimming but more like phantoms in a haunted house without the drama of scaring any living human. It is this empty house I am describing with these thoughts, this coral reef now quiet despite the movements. Of course, I have many other thoughts, much less significant, such as why my subletter isn't responding to whether she has sent in the check, whether I am just worrying too much, about the roof, about not finding the time to cook for Monday (today), about preparing for Kungfu again after an hour of grueling class and another hour of practicing on Saturday. Many other thoughts. But right now, these are the thoughts that are keeping me from my Monday morning nap in the quiet train that is creaking through the tunnel below the Upper East Side before emerging out to Harlem. There are more than one player here, and the thoughts aren't listed necessarily in the same order they had emerged in that coral reef of mine called the head.

She's not here. I guess that's good. I wouldn't know what to do if she were here. But my friend is here, and he seems nervous, because, I can relate, in some way, because his ex-girlfriend is here. He's sweating, smiling difficultly, and there's an invisible wall between them, at the table, more visible than the one I am leaning on.

She is here. She appeared without warning. There was warning. She was coming. Of course she's coming. He's here. The man with the red shirt and dark pants, whereas I am wearing dark shirt and red pants. He said earlier that if he and I were to dance, we would look so gay. Now she has arrived and the wall around me has risen.

It's impossibly insane to not talk to her. To not even look at her. I don't think she knows how much pain that gives me. I don't think she remembers how much more pain it would be for me to even look at her. She's here, in the same room as the man who would look gay dancing with me.

I am talking to this girl. At a milonga, when I usually don't talk much. We're talking about relationships. She falls in love too easily. Now after all those broken hearts and disappointments she remains single, sort of. I don't expect us to be good friends, but somehow I like being with her. She asks me if I am going to her festival in San Francisco; if we were close friends I would tell her that the girl just behind her was my travel partner last year to that same festival, but that now, I am not even looking at her. Still, I couldn't help it. I told her that there's a girl in the room that is distracting me. She smiled and we both felt a bit more connected with the trust we are building.

"They are everywhere." My friend was referring to all the beautiful girls walking on the streets of New York. I said I didn't know what they were eating, but yes, all these beautiful girls. He's a young boy who wants to settle down but has all the hormones to drive his attention to all these cute girls. "That chick was like a pornstar, big boobs, skinny, and platform shoes." I thought, really, that's what a pornstar looks like? I missed my opportunity to see who such a creature was. We were having ice cream in Washington Square. We wee sharing thoughts about women, well, more he was sharing his. I talked to him about things related to him. I didn't talk to him about last night. I don't know why. Perhaps because he's still, nonetheless, a guy.

"You wanna wait too?" The same young man asked, next night. "No," I said, very uneasy. I didn't feel I could say that without an explanation, and yet, I didn't feel like giving one now. I didn't want to wait a minute longer to create an awkward situation. I looked at her, and looked then him, both in the distance, cleaning up the milonga, and I told my friend, without looking at him, with a mixture of shame and frustration, "I can't. I will explain later." Yes, he can go back to our neighborhood together, in that man's car. But I can't. He and I had this implicit agreement that her presence would mean my absence in his car. It's silly. It's drama. But it's there to keep order, emotional order. "You should stay and wait for him. You will get home before me."

Then I ran out. For another reason. Not just to run away from the two people I am too ashamed and angry to be next to, but to be with someone whose voice I wanted to hear, whose timid smile I wanted to see, whom I want to give a fake hard time to so that we can both smile.

I screamed her name, not only to get her attention, but also because I was relieved I didn't miss her. She disappeared after I told my friend that I couldn't wait with him for the ride home. There she was, disappearing into the night. Like me and that man two nights ago, she was wearing red and dark. She was funny earlier by saying she almost texted me to warn me she was wearing the same color combination I was on Friday. Now she disappeared.

And I ran.

And I screamed her name. Twice because the first time was a little suppressed. She stopped. That was a good sign. She didn't just wave and continued. A car was about to hit me as I ran across the deserted street. The car stopped, the driver, a tango dancer, smiled to let me cross.

And just like the previous day, we talked, very naturally, nothing contrived, nothing forced, no awkward silence.

I had to take the bus, supposedly, to get closer to the bridge before taking the taxi. So now we had a reason to stand at the corner continuing our chat. The bus was within sight, and I had to say goodbye. No dramatic hug, just a natural one you'd expect from someone hurrying to catch a bus. But then the bus just ignored me and drove past. I turned around and saw her back disappearing again into the darkness. This time I didn't scream her name.

I jokingly gave her a hard time because she stopped dancing with me after one set for the reason that she didn't want me to miss an opportunity to dance with all these great dancers with just fifteen minutes left in the milonga. It's silly, but that generosity and caring nature of hers reminded me why she's such an appealing human being.

Who was I dancing with this whole night?

Let's try this pizza place the brother of a friend of mine says is the best in New York. OK, I am up for it.

You've lived in all these places? I hate you, I want to leave. Silly, you can do the same, but don't leave New York so soon yet.

I think you are really beautiful, not just physically, but also your generosity, your overt display of love for others, that's attractive, maybe not for the superficial men like me who like playing the physical attraction game, but you don't want their attention. You're a good human being.

I am realizing what I need to do from now on; for too long I have fallen for women because of the game, the game of attraction, that I fall for their looks and for how they look at me, the game even if they aren't conscious of the game, the game of I will give you a little but you have to come running after me for the rest. In the end, they don't take me after I've run so hard after them. I am understanding what my art friend had said. There's a deeper level of attraction, attraction for the humanity in a person. Like this woman who is generous, giving, loving, to everyone. She has what I am told I have, what I know I have, those same traits. But I am not confident enough that I am attractive because of those traits. Those traits are for friendships, I have thought for a long time, and so with someone I am attracted to I don't want those traits to come out, but instead, I am stubborn, petty, and my love and generosity is conditional, when it comes to someone I want to be my girlfriend. But here's a woman who has those traits. Here's a woman I never really even noticed for the past year and a half, almost, mostly because she was a good human being, that I saw nothing "attractive" about her. And now, she was sitting before me, talking to me.

Talking to me again.

Talking to me yet again, since the sun had fallen, since the stars have risen, and now the clock says 3AM. I am in the train back home. I am exuberant that I had such an amazing conversation. I haven't had it in a long while, not since two Aprils ago when I met that French girl and we talked a long time, into the night.

Be proud of who you are, because you are a great person. She couldn't look at me when I told her that. She didn't know that those were the words for myself too.

His bike was still in the apartment. I knew she had a boyfriend, a boyfriend she would leave New York for. But I didn't care. I don't want that to be the reason we would miss the opportunity to connect. I have today in my memory, the day I spent more than eight hours just talking, sharing thoughts, connecting to a human being. I was being generous to myself, not letting those dramas and barriers get in the way of happiness. I am happy.

A little sad she has a boyfriend, but I am happy we are friends.

I'm happy there's hope for me to meet someone who is actually good for me. I look back at the last handful of people. Again, the words of my art friend, "I think you want girls that everyone wants, at least that's the image. It would make you feel good." Often sources of happiness is about finding the hidden gem, the lady that not everyone is looking for, but I, if my eyes and mind were open, could see the beauty of.

Above on the roof of her building, we looked down at the tall concrete trees of Manhattan. Not only is she smart and beautiful, but she is also successful. She told me before this boyfriend she had only three others, and long before, too. It did take long for the world of superficial men to notice her.

Before she arrived in red and black, my heart had already started beating like a wild horse. That's because the French girl was there. I shouldn't be surprised. I looked for her, to prepare myself, when I walked in. I didn't see her until I had put my guard down.

A line of people sitting, a line of friends. I started from the left and she was the last one in the line. Do the mature thing. I did. I gave her a hug and kiss like I did with everyone. I sat awkwardly in the only empty chair in the group.

A milonga comes up. How can I be sitting here already pretending she doesn't exist in the room and not dance with her to the music we always danced to when the cold war wasn't heating up. She didn't change her seat but I, having felt stupid sitting in front of everyone alone, sat next to a friend. An empty seat separated us, while the milonga was sweet and beautiful, taunting me. Can I do the right thing? What is the right thing? To interact with her risked repeating the cycle of hopes then anger. But something was becoming ridiculous. I was nervous, but I was also trying not to laugh, laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

The first song is over. Two more to go before the set ended. I couldn't contain that joker inside me; I would just start laughing like a crazy in front of everyone. So I got up and asked her. I half expected her to say no, or at least asked me what the point was. After all, I didn't even look at her in her face on Friday.

It's dangerous. The scent, embrace, the voice, all so familiar. I was nervous, I thought my heart would leap out like a wild horse tearing through the hurdles. I forgot that her man was there, DJing. I forgot that I have taken a very risky step that could soon cause another ending full of anger and frustration. I listened to each note in the music, I listened to each step she took at my suggestion, I followed her. It was one of the best dances I have had in all these years, and it was my first dance of the evening, and it was a milonga (which is still not the easiest dance for me). But because it was a milonga that I asked her, to stop laughing at the absurdity of the situation. I didn't want to talk. I just wanted to embrace her. Listen to her. Letting her in my life for just a little bit.

I forgot about the stubbornness, the declaration of not wanting friendship, of not talking to her until she's single again. There was music. There was her there. I did not want to talk. Talking would open up reminders of what I have forgotten.

I looked at her in her eyes, no doubt making her feel uncomfortable. I wanted to know who this woman was. I wanted to know if it was about ego and winning a Yes from her, or if I really loved her. Or how much of each. We danced another two sets.

And another couple of sets after.

And the last two sets.

Maybe that was all. Leave it as it was. To imagine more would mean opening wounds and creating more pain. She still went home that night with someone else. She has been reading at least some of my blog entries, knowing at least of my lofty goal of becoming the best tango dancer. I was touched. But let's just confine the memory of the evening to just the beautiful dances, because, in the end, she went home with someone else.

It was enough to remember how much I missed embracing her.

So I left without waiting for a possible ride with them. I left to join someone who reminded me that there are actually good women out there who are emotionally available to me. But I had to open my eyes. Focus away from the games, the superficial attractions. Here was someone who liked me enough to stand there 1:15 in at night chatting with me until the bus came (and went). Someone who wanted to travel the world, live the world, live life. Someone who thinks I am smart and funny. She can't be the only one.

When I stop, I don't just smell the roses that are so easily noticeable, but also the hidden lilac somewhere among the bushes, among the groves.

So that was my weekend. So full of thoughts, full of events.

Sitting there in the middle of West Village, among half-drunk teenagers, we sat side by side, commenting on people, philosophizing about life, relishing the its simple beauty of allowing us meet, every now and then, wonderful people.

But sometimes, we have walls that should be laughed at. Here we are, in the middle of the infusion of beautiful music, all I could think about was laughing at the absurdity. She and I could also be sitting somewhere, without plans, talking about impromptu topics, exchanging ideas, and ultimately, making each other feel safe and away from the loneliness that are our shadows. She said she hasn't been doing well. In my mind, I thought I wish I could be there. But the wall said she had abandoned me in the path that she refused to take. The wall said she had chosen a similar path with someone else with whom she was going home tonight. The absurdity is that two people who could make each other happy choose to do the very opposite. I had to laugh.

Now I have to lean on that wall.