Dandelions

Yes, more wine please. Lustrous, fruity red wine shinning under the dim lights, reflected in the lusty cheeks and mouths. Furtive seduction lingering in the movements, a subtle exploration of the other, hands and eyes stopping half way – timid and bold – the blushing at the recognition of shared preferences, voices getting softer, “yes, I also love pancakes,” “I cannot stand Woody Allen either!” the food sitting cold on the plates, a content strangeness to everything outside that bubble.
At home later that night, I felt puzzled, not knowing what to do with the newfound cheerfulness now reflected in my suddenly clumsy hands. I was not used to things working, not used to encounters rather than dates, not used to moments that allow expectations. However restless, I abandoned myself in the pleasurable warmth of that hope; my unprepared hands holding that maybe as one would hold a seeded dandelion: amazed and frightened.
How confusing were my days after that night. I walked around bewildered by the frenzy of my own thoughts. Even in an action as simple as walking into the coffee shop, I was taken by overwhelming desires of eating chocolate muffins with vanilla ice cream and strawberries, and of not eating anything and going on a diet, going vegetarian maybe, and then exercising it all away. And also of shopping for a purple shirt, and of finally getting back to the bass lessons I quit so long ago, and of calling a friend who I hadn’t talked to in six years, of calling all my friends, and of planting a dozen orchids, of starting a whole garden, of painting my nails bright red, of drawing round faces with my index finger on the white snow accumulated on she shields of the cars, and of buying a brand new journal with impeccable leather cover and writing endlessly, aimlessly, distractedly. Looking for definitions in that tumult, I wondered for a second if that was what some people call happiness.
But then, that colorful mess was dissonant in a world where tediousness seemed to be the rule. And was it right to impose my gladness – a luxury! – on those frowning expressions across the counter? People and their robotic efficiency were somewhat offended by the giggly smiles that insisted to draw themselves on my face. I bought a couple of flowers, and did schedule a manicure, but I was too aware of the critic eyes to openly act on my new cravings. I trimmed the excesses, keeping my joy mild and well mannered. I stood at the sidewalks, my eyes shifting from cars’ shields covered in white to the gray bored people holding their cases and checking their watches, and just nodded, complacent at my own ingenuousness.
There were phone calls, and e-mails. There was the memory of that good sensation, which I naively tried to recreate, but it didn’t feel the same. My pragmatism spread itself slowly, filling any dents, answering all possible questions with its definite logic. “You live far from here…” “you haven’t been in a long-term relationship before…” “you haven’t finished college yet…” My brain relentlessly signing it can’t work, it can’t work, it can’t work… And even if it worked, where would it go? Probably into suburban misery, isn’t it where all the supposedly successful stories head after all? Once the book is closed and the curtains go down, where else does all the bliss go? It wears out. One marry, have kids, gain weight, and turn sweaty and flaccid confined in some two bedrooms beige and brown townhouse.
Shortly, my expectations from that first night looked childlike at my own eyes. What did I expect? A live-happy-after-ever fairy-tale? They don’t exist. You know it. I knew it too. We all know it.
After a week, we were barely still in touch. When he didn’t answer the phone, and didn’t return the calls I understood that we wouldn’t talk to each other again. I realized it gently, bit by bit, and took it in a quiet manner, with the coolness expected of someone who knew it all along. I scrutinized myself looking for some meaning, some evidence of that story on me. I believe I even hoped for a bit of sadness, but all I could find was an embarrassed sense of relief.