Boy,
there he is waiting by the shed, hands tucked to his pockets, eyes puzzled on
the pavement, all to his enigma under his sleeves. This is the guy who doesn’t
scan strangers for a hint or an answer. This is the guy who doesn’t smile when he
catches me from the crowd, no, let me correct that: this is the guy who doesn’t
know how to smile. He just throws
this usual look he has bought from over the counter I take as a token of relief
before he averts his eyes like it hasn’t been months—has it been four?
He
ruffles my hair and says it suits me better this time, this for the ninth time,
always speechless, because how am I supposed to react to that? I’m sure, thank
you isn’t gonna do it justice.
Ah,
this is the guy who wears mask.
At
the bar, I told him a story about a boy who’s found himself in most things
unrequited: Unrequited thank you, and
good night, and yeah, I’ll see you again. Unrequited yeah, sure, let me walk you to the stop, and yeah, goodbye, while he tells himself he’s just an old friend again.
He
smiles halfway this time.
I’m
bad with words, I tell him.
Tell
me about it, he says.
I
could’ve sworn I heard him laugh.
I
can’t argue because he’s right; he’s never been good with words. People don’t
get this side of him. They always mistake his silence.
No,
he says. It means I don’t know.
Yes,
he says. It means I couldn’t care less.
His
face will always convince you with, I’m
okay, look, I may be here for the past hour, but trust me, I’m not being stood
up. Because who would ask? He doesn’t look like he’s the recipient of the
most recent confession you’ve read elsewhere or the love poem being written by
now waiting to be addressed to, you can’t mistake him for that. And when he
throws you this look, it’s gonna convince you he’s okay, because it’s scribbled
all over his face. He’s gonna compose a smile, too, the one that’s right for
you, but he will fail because he doesn’t know how to.
Little
do you know he’s not waiting for anyone, even when he lied it’s only been an
hour when it’s been three.
I
don’t know, I say.
He
glances back.
This
is the fifth line I’ve gone after three Martini and a beer on the house, and
probably another one, already begging at me. He swigs on his beer that I take as
a response, which probably means a nod or probably a no after streaks of yes,
who knows, to remind me he’s all ears. That’s right, when it’s twenty three
minutes to another hour you’ll suspect him to keep secrets he doesn’t mind
spilling, including when I say I only smoke five a day, yet the tray could use
some help—some space.
You
know… I start.
I
told him a story that follows a guy who hopes for rain at four in the
afternoon, when it’s midsummer.
It
really does rain when he hopes for one, I add.
He
nods.
I
told him that this guy used to smoke
at a stop at three in the morning not really waiting for someone.
He
nods again.
He
nods after every line. When I tell him, he
walks at three steps per second, he nods, he meets three glances per
second, he nods. A repetition you’ve recognized to yourself that whenever you
see someone do it, you’ll mistake it’s him. It’s addicting.
You
know what’s funny, I continue.
Now
he laughs.
I
don’t know, I tell myself. This is the kind of guy who has a smile straight
from over the counter; a preset face; the face that spends hours looking at the
mirror, trying out masks, thinking how do
I hide today? This is the guy who’s worn so many masks he’s forgotten how
his smile looks like.
How do I smile
today?
What smile do I
wear today?
I
could’ve sworn this is my eighty-fourth line, I blurted.
He
looks up.
The
truth is, it’s my sixth line, if not seventh. The truth is, I didn’t tell him
anything, not about the boy plastered with warning barriers written unrequited, not about a guy who hopes
for rain at four in the afternoon, not about how he walks at three steps per
second.
I
didn’t tell him that they’re the same person.
I
didn’t tell him he knows him very well.
So
I’ve worn his smile and say, let’s go.
