Lusting after someone is like filling up with tears; it chokes you. And when you touch them for the first time, you feel finally able to cry.
His name was Eam. Reality shot him in slow motion.
He worked in Spain, Salamanca. He worked at a bar called ‘El Submarino,’ the second bar, up the stairs. When he snapped open a beer, it took a minute; he poured a drink, ten. But, people waited, people watched.
I waited. I watched.
His eyes found me first; eyes made of whispers heard over the landscape of a pillow. You can’t deny eye-contact that lingers in slow-motion.
He didn’t need to ask what I wanted, he knew.
He snapped it open, slid it over to me. It moved in real-time. He spun the bottle opener once, twice, three times around his finger and slipped it into an arm band. By the time he’d finished, my beer was half-gone.
He made his way over. I waited. Someone sat beside me, a woman. She looked about to cry. She stared at Eam but spoke to me.
“Do you think he understands us?” she asked.
I hadn’t thought about it–didn’t want to; she wasn’t asking for an answer anyways.
“We must sound so funny to him, all speed-ed up and all.”
I nodded even though she wasn’t watching. As he got closer she stole all the adoration from the world to smile up at him. But, he didn’t stop on her. It was me; I knew it would be. He held his hand out to me.
“Hi” he said and it rang with all the pleasure that comes from the first note of your favorite song.
I took his hand. And there we stayed, weeping.