Ten Tiny Love Stories Page #3

And so...

after I sit down,

I realized

he didn't stand up.

It really bugs me

and I can feel myself

getting into a bad mood,

but I'm fighting it.

He smells good...

and he has beautiful hands.

I like that.

That's my favorite part

in a guy.

And then he orders drinks

for both of us.

He refrains from flirting

with the waitress.

She was flirting with him,

but I can be thankful for that.

And then he says, "So?"

And he puts both hands

on the table

and sits straight like,

"What can you do for me?"

And so, I realize

I've been talking to him

but his English is flawless

so I asked him,

"Why is your English so good?"

He explains

that his mother's Irish

and she sent him to bilingual school

in Buenos Aires.

And then, as part of

this background information,

he says to me his mother

killed herself when he was seven.

She hung herself.

And he mentioned it

just in passing.

That completely

changed everything.

Not because of the suicide,

but of how he mentioned it.

So quickly.

And I asked if he had siblings

and he said he was an only child.

He suddenly seemed deficient.

Yes, he was charming

and handsome,

but he didn't...

like he wasn't

good enough.

So then,

he starts drilling me

with those date

question talk things.

And so I'm doing

most of the talking.

He was funny, okay?

But something

just snapped in me.

I got bored

and I could sense

he was feeling that,

so he became less animated,

and I switched gears,

trying to have fun,

and I thought,

"This isn't going

to work out,

but don'tjudge him,

give the guy a break."

So after dinner,

I notice

he's staring at my foot.

My legs were crossed...

so you could see my foot

at the side of the table,

and I had flat open-toed shoes.

I had my toenails painted.

And he says,

"You have big feet."

My first instinct

was to uncross my legs

and put my foot down,

but I didn't.

I just left it.

And I said, "Do I?"

He said, "They're as big as mine."

And he puts his shoe

next to my foot,

and they were nearly

the same size.

"You have big toes,

like Fred Flintstone's,"

he said.

I burst out laughing

and he just smiled.

He knew he was hurting me.

And I wanted to leave...

but I didn't.

I just sat there.

I uncrossed my legs...

and put my foot down.

And without saying a word,

he waves the waitress over

and he pays

the bill in cash.

Then we walk in silence

to the door.

We hand the valet guy

our tickets

and the valet guy

says something in Spanish.

Felipe laughs and

doesn't share it with me.

And after he pays

for the tickets,

he asks me if I want to go

to his house for drinks.

I followed him in my car.

And when we get

to his house,

he puts on some videos

of some things he filmed.

We're watching in silence.

He's looking at it seriously,

like he's judging someone

else's work on a panel.

So we're just sitting there.

Then he reaches over

and turns off the light,

so that the TV was the only light

in the apartment.

We hadn't said anything...

hardly,

since the restaurant.

So I reach over in his trousers,

and I give him a blowj*b.

So after he's finished,

I'm waiting for him

to start... on me,

or to start something.

And he gets up,

and he goes

to the bathroom.

And he comes back...

and he falls asleep next to me

on the couch.

I was almost angry...

but I just lay there.

I watched him sleep,

smelled his breath.

Then I fell asleep.

Then he woke me up

and told me

it was time to go home.

I thought I was going

to have a panic attack.

And I begged him...

if I could spend the night.

And I started to cry.

I begged him. I said,

"Please,

can I spend the night?"

"We know we don't have

to have sex,"

I said.

"I just want to sleep here."

"You can sleep on the couch."

That's what he said.

So he went to the other room

and he brought back out

a sheet.

And then he went back to his room

and closed the door.

And I turned off the TV...

I lay there, trying to figure out

if he was asleep.

I could hear some music

in the apartment next door...

and some old lady laughing.

About an hour later,

I got up...

and I checked his door.

But it was locked.

I went back to the couch.

And I fell asleep.

I was once on an airplane,

flying to the Yucatan.

And the man next to me told me

the story of his life in two hours.

He was Cuban

and the pastry chef

at one of the big hotels

in Cancun.

He was coming back

from a holiday in Miami

where his daughter

lives with his parents.

This man had been

madly in love

with a dancer from

the Cuban National Ballet.

They'd been involved

for about seven years

when they were young,

in Havana.

And as she became more successful

and moved up the ranks,

she had to travel abroad

more often.

And he said she became distracted

by the trappings of fame

and she left him.

He said it crushed him

and he never recuperated.

And he told me all this

without an ounce of self-pity.

He'd been married twice

since then

and had had

many girlfriends.

But it was never the same

with any of them.

He said a man only loves

one woman in his lifetime.

And that any man

who denies it, is a liar.

"Love only knocks once

on a man's door."

Those were his words.

He was...

a roly-poly man

and balding.

And he had chubby fingers

and a shirt

that was too tight,

with short sleeves.

He was afraid of flying

and drank the entire flight.

But he didn't seem

to get drunk.

He did stammer a little and

his forehead was covered with sweat.

The parts weren't much,

but the whole

grew on you very quickly.

After talking for awhile,

I got up to go

to the bathroom.

And he stood up

just to see me off.

And when I came back,

he stood up again

until I was seated

and buckled in my seat.

That's a man

you can remember.

He never stopped talking

about himself the entire time.

And I always felt

he was catering to me.

How did he do that?

A couple of times,

I forgot myself

and he caught me

just looking at him,

not really listening,

just taking him in.

If the whole thing

was a pick-up routine,

it was sensational.

He deserved to get laid.

Itjust goes to show you

it's not what a man says,

it's how he says it.

It's not the words,

it's who you are.

I was off to meet Mark at the beach

for a couple of days,

but if I had been

on my own,

I would have made a play

for this man in a heartbeat.

You never know

what might have happened.

I might have turned out

to be the one,

instead of that ballerina.

He could have been wrong

about her.

When we landed in Cancun,

he stood up

and shook my hand

and he said his name:

Crispin.

Go figure.

I went through customs

and lost him,

but when I was waiting

for my bags,

I saw him on the other side

of the conveyor belt,

reaching for his

and then walking away.

And he looked lonely,

carrying his little suitcase,

dressed in his ugly shirt

and lost in his Cuban thoughts.

I liked that.

The next day,

I'm laying in the sun

in the poolside with Mark.

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