Mindless Rambling
Four short love stories about the past, the present, the future and the fictionalized life under my pen... Just some ramblings Just some unsolved feelings Just some unsaid words Just some unexplainable thoughts It was my first Cuban Cigar
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You
The Cuban cigar and Cuban rum were slowly poisoning me. Gradually I saw him in your eyes. I extended my arms to touch you, you brushed my hands away - you never liked me touching you. You never liked kissing me, unless you were driven by the urge of sex. But I couldn't even remember when it was the last time you desired me.
A while back, I remembered waking up, in the middle of the afternoon, you were sitting next to me, your face were fixed in mine, all purposed.
I woke up by your shadow. Saturday afternoon, I had dozed off in your living room, curved in your soft couch with my jeans and my sweat shirt.
“Would you like to have sex?” You had asked me.
There was never any romance. Like an English man you were always matter-of-fact-ly. You didn't love me, you never did, I was blind but I could see now.
Sometimes I just wanted to put my hands on your face, trace down your feature: your tall straight nose, your eyebrows, your lips, and your fine wrinkles around your eyes. But I wouldn't dare to. You'd turn around and give me your back. I never understood you. Or maybe I did understand you I just refused to acknowledge what I already knew.
My Love
At night when you sounded asleep I dreamed about him. You rarely touched me or made love to me these days. So in my dreams, he became alive. He was a tireless and expressive lover who took my breath away.
My yearning soul for your attention transcended into a forever longing for his body.
Sometimes I missed him so much my whole entire being would hurt as a result.
You never wanted your pictures taken with me. He wouldn't want any pictures unless it was the two of us together.
There was a very pure sense of innocence about him. He made me want to be a better person. At night I drifted into a fantasy land where only he and I existed. All I wanted to do was to wrap myself around him and breathe only his air. I knew I could not possibly survive without his love.
I called him when you were not around. He always knew it was me, even when I didn't pronounce my name. We talked about nothingness yet every word he said made sense. I never told him that I loved him, but for some reason I thought he already knew. He knew my rhythm so well, even my little valleys and peaks. Just the other day he asked me if I was having cramps again.
I was surprised that he remembered it. He said that he marked down those days and then he asked me if I was O.K. I just swallowed two pain killers. I was touched. No guys in my life had ever asked me that. He told me that he hadn't been the same, ever since we first met.
"What did you do to me, Baby?"
His voice carried a familiar accent, like the man who I thought I'd love until the day I die. Sometimes I would recall that spring afternoon, how I met him and how he managed to wrap me into a complete bundle of happiness. I never knew what to expect from then on. I never knew what living was until I met him.
Dark dancing shadows by the fire. The Cuban cigars and the Cuban rum tasted sweeter in another country. I blew out smoke, through the flames I saw you, still the quiet unspoken form of forbiddance, I could taste my own tears, but the Cuban music was faster and louder than the rate of my heart was breaking. You had no idea.
I saw northern lights for the first time – reflection of the Arctic.
Those Canadians were used to it. I yelled with excitement - thus I qualified as an American.
After the rum and cigars kicked in, I imagined being with him: his kisses so sweet, so deep, and so drunken. I already forgot how to kiss you. You never let me to be close to you. The darkness of the night sent chills to my spine.
I could hardly wait to get home, but where is home? I searched long and hard, I thought you were the home I needed, but you were no more than a bad dream.
I woke up still alone, and all I wished was that somehow he was there with me. Where was he? What was he doing? I tried to send a post card but I couldn't find the right currency.
In the morning he used to wake me up with his tongue, at night he let me fall into asleep in his arms. He made love to me like no other man ever did. He stole my heart. You never knew that I could have an orgasm.
You never knew that I enjoyed sex. You never saw how passion was burned in my eyes. You simply didn't know anything about me. He's my love, my destination. I just don't know how to get there from here.
That night when we drove home I slept well for the first time. He was in my dreams all night. He kept on whispering, “Baby I want to see you again. This time on your side of the coast.”
Olson
Starbucks by Memorial Drive, I saw the same purple velvet sofa by the window. A man with a black hat, black suits, black turtle neck, earrings, and blonde short hair. It was a raining day. My white cotton dress was soaking wet, my black sweater was dripping. Our eyes fixed with each other.
"Non-fat Decaf Grande Latte please."
I searched for the shining loonies. There was no other seats but the one next to this man.
“What are you reading?” He asked.
“One hundred years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.”
I had the English version in my hand.
“May I?”
He extended his hand. I showed him the book. He was strikingly good-looking. I wondered if he was a musician. We watched the rain falling, sharing a quiet and peaceful moment. The city never rained, it was more of desert weather there.
My Canadian friends asked me: “Did you bring the rain with you from San Francisco?”
I remembered that used to be my home. I’d not been there for weeks. Home is more alone than being the road. Home is an empty shell – without my love the world is a vacant place.
The blonde man was working on his new album. He said that he lived not far from Victoria BC, he asked me if I would come to Vancouver to listen to him playing one day. His eyes were intense, his soft European accent was pure, and his charm was undeniable. I smiled and tossed my head back, my wet hair dripping the raindrops, the non-fat decaf latte was on my hand, warming my cold soul.
How inappropriate, to have met this man this late.
“What are you doing later on?” He asked me.
I didn't mention about you, I didn't mention about going to your cold home, sitting in the living room, dreaming about my love who is three thousands miles away, dreaming about the last encounter with my love, while you watched Hockey games on TV.
“I dunno.” I played safe.
For all I knew, you had gone to visit your girlfriend, I never knew much about you, but I knew you were in love with this blonde woman who lived on the hills with her two kids and a dog.
She's in her late thirties. You always liked older women. I desperately wanted to leave you. But I don't want you to guess where I would be tonight if I went with Olson.
“Call me…” The blonde German wrote down his number.
“I was born in this town but I've been out in Europe for too long.” He carried his backpack and his guitar. He was in town on a business trip until Tuesday. Then he would head back to BC to finish his album.
“Sing something for me.”
I wanted him to stay a bit longer, for I knew I’d not call or see him again. He sang in low and strong voice. I was always drawn to the artistic type, yet I always thought men with MBAs were my destiny.
Then there was my love, who had rescued me from the darkness below hell. My love, my only hope to live again.
He played guitar with expertise. I stared at his face, his angelic face. I wonder where he had been throughout the world. He put the guitar down when the music was over.
He asked me where I was from.
“China.” I told him. He wouldn't believe me. He thought I was pulling his chains. I proceeded to show him my passport.
He said “Amazing.” “You sure don't look or act or speak like one.” He had been doing gem business with people from Thailand and Hong Kong. We talked about the Far East, then Europe. The rain was coming down hard.
His music forever etched in my mind. It sure felt like the West Coast.
Lars
Years ago, I met this Swedish man during one Thanksgiving. Lars was his name. He was twenty seven at the time. He was 6’4 tall, with dark brown hair, which I found unusual for the Swedish. He had two big dimples on his boyish face, he wore dark sports jacket with Levi's jeans.
We would make endless love in my small apartment in California, with the December rain pouring down. When we got tired, we ate cheese, pate and drank champagne in bed. He tried to teach me Swedish, I tried to teach him English and Chinese. We were two big kids who were lost in the big wide world.
He was the first man who brought me fresh dark purple roses.
“Come on, let me fly you out to Sweden.” He had asked me, in his broken English.
“It's too cold.” I never thought too much into it.
“Would you dance with me?” He held me so tight it hurt.
We slow danced to the last song.
“I don't know how to say it.” I looked into his eyes and I saw tears slipping down from this tall Swedish man.
“I've not felt this way for a long time.” His voice choked.
"You are so tall" was all I could manage to say.
We stayed in the club until the dance floor shut down and then we checked in a room. We made love all night. He whispered intangibles in Swedish.
Pacifica. We sat by a fallen tree and watched the tides. He held my hands tight, he won't say much. He couldn't. He only spoke little English. He was flying back the next day.
“Come and live with me in Sweden.” He said.
“I have five Mercedes'. I work very very hard. I own business. I make you happy.”
I was twenty-two. I just learned to say “Internet”. I signed on with America Online. I preferred surfing the net than having real relationships.
I didn't know what love was, nor did I know how to love. Much later on, when I did learn how to love and who to love, it was all too late.
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