To Si: Last night snow falling the Canyons, from the hotel windows I could look out to the Wasatch Mountains, which was covered with fresh snow flakes. You've left me again. I thought of you and how your body felt next to me. I thought of your hair, your eyes and your voice. The last thought of the night was you.
The ghost in my pocket
That raining night, in a dark, crowded, jazz playing bar by Embarcadero, I was in a white see through shirt and short short black mini skirt. As I was sipping my drink, someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned around and saw my ghost in a dark suit.
He said, "I thought it was you. I had to come to say hi. How are you?"
It's been at least a year since I last saw him. And he still looked breath taking. The truth was, I never forgot about him, it didn't matter how long it had been, I could never forget the way he came into and exited out of my life.
He was the one man who I thought I loved. He had, despite his announcement of moving to California, returned back to New York City, where he grew up and led a life which I knew nothing about.
He said that he was in San Francisco for a short one week to cover a story for his newspaper back east.
I was forever in debt to my own sorrows, for I never understood my heartbreak could be so severe, to the point that I no longer tried to conceal. I thought at one point that I'd die because I no longer had the power of moving on. I gave up trying to get over what was impossible and I stopped hoping all together. It didn't matter where I was, whom I was with, and what I was doing. His spirit never left me.
It was such a strange thing, to watch my life going by, to feel myself growing older, to know that I was becoming more experienced in dealing with relationships of all kinds, more tolerant of people, and less enthusiastic about what used to be so precious and sacred – that mysterious word called love.
There was something positive came out of this desperate longing. I realized something infinite valuable. Since then, I learnt to handle loss with the grace of a woman, not the grieve of a child. Since then, I learnt to take one day at a time, enjoy life as it comes and truly appreciate what my life is all about. Since then, I found the secret key to HAPPINESS.
Chasing Blond
It is a stormy night. Unlike the heat wave that's been sweeping the San Francisco bay, the weather has been unpredictable like a baby's face in Salt Lake City. One minute it is hot and dry and one minute it is chilly and raining – here for a while I think the summer has finally arrived.
You come back around 7:30 p.m., commuting from a town that's an hour and half away from Salt Lake City. I am still working in the hotel room. You look tired but happy to see me.
To this date it still amazes me – to see how much I enjoy looking at you. I’d never admit it to anyone, especially to you. Though I've seen you half a dozen of times, I am still so fascinated by your looks. Sometimes all I want to do is to run my figures through your hair, soft, blonde, and curly. I am weak when it comes to good looking men. Though most of the time physical attraction has led to the no-where land, I am often trapped in my own cage, where the lust over certain type of men continues to dominate my better sense.
You come and go, enter and exit out of my life as you please, in a strange yet distinct way you somehow remind me of myself. I ask nothing from you – others already forewarn me plus I'm too insecure to confront you with my own illusions.
At Baci’s I'm led to a corner table, only to be called out by a colleague eating at the next table, just after I told you that it would be unlikely that I’d run into anyone in this town who would recognize me. I tell you that I've been here twice before - a good Italian restaurant with a variety of desert selections. I've always been a desert person. But I am not feeling too well. The all of sudden cold spell catches me by surprise, I am cold, tired and running a slight fever.
Various people have visited me here before, at least six times, though none of them was you. When you were here before you had visited someone else, someone else who I also knew but we had not crossed path yet – honestly even if we did, you'd never realize that it would be me one day whom you chose to spend tonight with.
San Francisco Bay is such a small place. Like a friend of mine from New York described to me the other day – “it's an incestuous group”. We were sitting at a bar in North Beach drinking Latte and getting spoiled by the unusually warm spring day in San Francisco. The stories goes around in this loosely connected group consisted of possibly 100 people from everywhere (Europe, East Coast, Midwest and California) are the enlarged versions of Seinfeld or Friends , only a lot worse.
I've chosen to stay away from the inter-group dating scene as much as possible, yet with the forever busy traveling schedule and the abundance of email exchanges regarding the weekend activities, I find myself trapped in this groupie thing just as much as anyone else does.
That thought has come across my mind when I think of you with regarding to how we really met. It is certainly unusual, yet in a strange way it must be fate. Like that man once said to me, “I never temper fate”.
I'm almost afraid of getting to know you. In my mind I made you to be the new James Bond, someone who is mysterious and who is forever leading different lives. I am afraid of getting disappointed for whatever I'm going to find out, so like the fine wine, I savor you with curious wonder. I'm cautious in rendering my affection towards you – this is so that I can secure the floodgate and prevent my heart from getting crushed again.
So when you tell me that you like me I wonder why you keep on telling me this. I blush because I'm embarrassed. If we know what truth is why do we always go around it? If you are not the one for me, why do you pretend that you care?
When you are with me I feel that I belong somewhere, when you touch me I feel that I am indeed part of your life, but when you depart and when I don't hear from you for days or even weeks, I feel I'm removed from your world. And in return, I erase you out of my mind as well. I can't figure you out so I don't even bother to try.
You want me to lie next to you. Your nakedness against my own. We always fall asleep in each others arms. In the middle of the night you hug me, take me into your arms, embrace me like no other men do. Just before the dawn we both wake up as if we have the same internal clocks, I say "hi, how are you?" You draw me closer to you and say "hi...".
You kiss me passionately and make furious love to me. I open my eyes to meet yours - your green eyes are burning fire. How can I ever have enough of you? How can I? You depart before I am fully awake and fill my cheeks with small kisses.
“Have a good day” you say. With that you hug me – I can smell the light cologne mixed with the after shave. You smell so fresh and your skin is so soft. I am feeling a bit sad to see you go. I run my figures through your curly blonde hair.
“I may be going back tonight”. You tell me.
“Where to?” I never know if you will be in the East Coast office or the home office. You are always on the road, more so than I am.
“San Francisco.” You say.
“You are going home tomorrow right? We will see each other tomorrow night if not tonight.” You tell me.
You sound so certain.
But I know better. I don't hold my breath on that. Sometimes you are so close yet so far away.
Sometimes it feels better when you are not around that often. Your absence provides me with a comfort zone. In this zone I build you up, I see you through filtered lenses and I write stories about the filtered you. In my stories I can afford to fall for you and be obssessed about you.
“What is truth?” You say. You keep a journal when you are on the road. I write stories instead. Sometimes even I can not tell what I write is fiction or truth any more.
But I know this is real – this dream is real:
I was driving frantically, on a highway hanging by a cliff, I drove like a manic. The whiny highway was built against a high and steep cliff. I almost got us killed three times on different turning points. The other side was the clear ocean. In the ocean there were two casino boats, built in the shape of Trump’s Tai Mahal of Atlantic City. The scenery was taken out of the Massachusetts coast line and the weather was rather warm, reminded me of the spring time back home in the Far East. You were to leave town to Thailand and I was late in taking you to the airport. It was Christmas time and along side of the coast line there were people wearing hats singing Christmas Caros. You were unusually quiet. It was twenty minutes before departure and we were still far away from the Logan Airport.
I was panicking. You would never make it...
Then you emerge, the bath room lights lit, you have gotten dressed and ready to head out.
“I'm a bit late.” You say.
“What time is the meeting?” I ask.
“7 O'clock.”
You hug me and press your soft lips on me. At that moment I experiencel a sense of loneliness. Something I've not allowed myself to acknowledge often.
You whisper to my ears, "Go back to sleep. Have a good day."
I extend my arms to hug you, feeling 6 am's vulnerability. I remember that song this time, it goes like this: "Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you..."
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