He wasn't this happy and smiling the first time I saw him. It's not that he wasn't actually happy it's just he wasn't smiling as much. He was a bit of a prick the first time to be honest. At least he came across as such to me. He was rumbling about the places we were all traveling through and at the beginning I enjoyed it immensely. As he continued for several hours and took his monologue to another level of insignificant data nobody was interested anymore. The whole tour bus was almost shouting at him to stop it already till much later he finally dropped it and fell asleep somewhere in Germany.
I really didn't like his endless word stream pouring out but he had something about him that caught my attention. I liked his eyes and his lips. I wanted to touch him and go over his lips with my finger tips just to feel their softness. They looked velvety and their shape was curvy and they were not thin or full. They were just right. Blue eyes, big, sharp. When he looked at you he could read you like a book; at least I felt that way, when we had shaken hands for the first time. I avoided him for the rest of the journey. France was easy. I just stayed at the back of the bus and that was it. It wasn't that easy in London. I just did my best to duck his look. No, he wasn't as happy then as he looked a few days ago.
He has just returned from Grand Canaries and he had a bit of a tan. It wasn't the tan though that made him absolutely attractive. He hadn't shaved and his dirty blond and silvery hair made him look younger and most of all somehow happy. He was smiling when he saw me coming to our appointment. It wasn't a date or anything like that. I had no illusion whatsoever about the get-together being more than a mere echo of the London trip. That's why the hand offering from my side, but to say hello he wanted to hug me. I was panic stricken. What do I do? I am normally good at quick thinking but this was terrible. I completely lost capability to think properly. He raised his hand and I automatically took it in mine, turned him round and put my other hand around his neck as in a sort of a fun wrestling move. We shook hands afterwards and that was it. I was sorry the moment I did it. But those eyes of his knew everything despite the fact I never let anyone near. Nobody knows me for real and I decided nobody ever will. I don't hug and I don't kiss on mouth. I don't let almost anybody touch me in anyway. If I had let him hug me I would burst, explode in feelings and that would not be fair to me or him, especially to him. Not in front of people who were Christmas shopping and had a drink or two at the stands along the streets. Not even if there was nobody in the street but us. I couldn't hug him. It was too difficult to face the possible reaction on my side after the hug.
He had an orange jacket on the first time we met. He had it on the second time to. I traveled with him a month ago. We went to London again and his orange jacket led us through, by, and near the sights I know by heart as I have been to London for the fifteenth time at least. Not with him though. It's difficult for me to go with him, very difficult. Yet I wanted to be him this time. He is good, he is the best in explaining, leading the tourists and helping them in their tiny and less tiny predicaments. He was the best one for the job. Everything was great and I managed to avoid him, avoid being alone with him. I talked to him only if I needed to. Then in National Gallery in front of a Van Dyke painting he made a comment about the artists surname and I responded. I shouldn't have. I should have kept my big mouth shut. It was just pun. I hoped he wouldn't notice and he didn't show it till later on the steps to the gallery shop he said he was gay and the pun was just pun. I was dumb stricken. Here was this man I liked for many years and yet avoided him as much as possible telling me something I could only dream of.
I do not hug. I do not hug men. I do not hug gay men because it's too difficult. It's dangerous. Where I live this is impossible. I'd lose my job in a heartbeat and probably I couldn't live where I live now anymore.
Thousand thoughts raced and collided and raced again through my mind as I was following him down the wide staircase listening to his words about the shop and the souvenirs. I wanted to shout from happiness, relief and sorrow at the same time. Nobody has ever said to me he was gay, never. I felt less alone on the planet. All of a sudden there is someone I could talk to openly and they wouldn't judge me or attack me or raise havoc about it. I would love to hug him and thank him and talk to him and ask him all sorts of questions. I really would if I had the courage. I had none. I choked for a split second and continued as if nothing had been said. I checked some paintbrushes and later chose a set of acrylic paints. I talked to others from the group as they slowly found their way to the shop.
As we were talking and walking in the street in the old part of the town I tried to steal some glances at his tanned happy face. He was different from the first time but also different from last month at the gallery. He looked great. No orange jacket, no smoothly shaven face and no people to take care of behind him. His bright eyes were even brighter and the wrinkles around them were not as visible. His long stubble would probably feel somewhere between prickly and soft. He was in town for only a short time. He was going to Mexico for a month or so. I wished him best time and lots of fun. I didn't say it aloud though. We had lunch and talked. I shouldn't talk to him. He makes my brain useless. I didn't think before blurting out words and thoughts. Everything I said was not thought beforehand and it made no sense to me. I listened to my brain but it was in slow motion. My brain is never in slow motion. Even when I sleep I get ideas for my work, about how to continue my paintings, what to do in the garden and a multitude of other thoughts and plans to be realized later. He told me about his life, bits of it. He spoke about his career and his private life. We think alike and he has a similar issue I have. But the point is, he is open about everything while I am not. I have only told him and nobody else. I couldn't and I can't.
I have constructed this imaginary life of mine that my neighbours and others see. I had two girlfriends that are now just good friends and that was enough for prying eyes to believe I was as the rest of the lot. The stories about me that eventually came back to me were far from the truth and some were even horrible. But that was much more acceptable than for people knowing the truth. Outing me would be devastating in many ways. This way I live peacefully and nobody attacks me. There was a man who had made a mistake and let others know about his preference. I was about eighteen at that time. After some physical attacks and lots of insults he moved away in less than a year. I can't do that. There are so many reasons why not. So I live my secluded little life and most people think I am a bit superior and difficult to talk to. That's just fine by me. Others feel that I am friendly and nice and helpful which is not that good for me. I must keep pushing people away and helping others must become more of an exception than a rule.
Walking back to the garage house with him was something I could do forever. He was nice and polite and honest and witty and everything I admire in a person, any person really not just in him. Under the Christmas lights everywhere around us I saw a reflection of us in a window. We couldn't have looked more differently. We are both quite tall and only two years apart but he is handsome and I am not, rather the opposite. He can be with anyone he chooses and I live in a secluded little village and keep my secluded insignificant life out of the way. We would be a complete mismatch even if he considered being at least a friend with me. I felt the sadness I have felt all my life being more present than ever. I am by far the most stupid man there ever was. I shouldn't have met with him. We are worlds apart and he is leaving to Mexico for a month or so. That's enough time to completely forget me.
The entrance door separated as we shook hands. I remained a cold statue in the glass elevator. I could see myself starring back from the mirror. I was wearing a long pitch black cashmere coat and a grey scarf, how appropriately dark and gloomy. If I hadn't turned round I'd cry. I paid for parking, found my car and drove out of the building. It was done automatically and without any thought. I only hoped I wouldn't see him walking on the pavement by the street as I drove in the same direction as he had told me he lived. The ice cold hand was holding my throat and I could hardly breathe. Luckily I didn't see him. It wasn't till almost an hour later I came to my house and sat in the dark. I had to cool down and calm my racing thoughts. I couldn't find one single reason for him to like me. Not one. Not even a tiny one.
Why am I so bothered by him? Why does it mean so much for him to like me? This is not who I am. I don't get upset because I met someone, never. I am independent, self-sufficient and I need nobody to make me whole. I really don't, right? Right, but it would be nice to have a friend like that. Yes, it would be nice.
After some time of reflecting upon my own stupidity I decided to have my dinner and go to sleep. There was nothing to do. Just before I went to bed my phone made a noise. It was an SMS and I almost fell on the floor when I saw whose it was. He thanked me for the present I gave him. It was just a mug that I liked and bought at the tea shop. But the point is, he didn't know it was a mug. He actually liked the wrapping. He hadn't opened it at all. That made me even more surprised. There were a few messages he sent and I sent. I am sure he was just being polite when he wrote he appreciated meeting someone who might become a good friend, but hope dies hard doesn't it. It was easier messaging him than talking to him in person, yet after reading some more of his words I was where I had been before – in a glass elevator. I choked again and started writing brainless things. He must have got it as his answers got shorter and I've probably bored him to death. I don't normally write long nor frequent messages. So I stopped.
The next day I sent him a short message wishing him a nice holiday and a safe trip to Mexico. He wished me the same and that was it. Today, three days later I went out for a long walk. It was the first after three days of putting things in my head back to their shelves and deciding what to do. I'll do nothing. I cannot do a thing. I don't want to be some ugly bloke whose behavior might start slightly resembling a mixture of a stalker and somewhat of a bore. Maybe he'll send a short message or a postcard. He just might. He won't, will he?