"You still got somethin' there Pablo," I talk to the mirror. A smile forms in my lips, it takes only one...or two muscles to smile, orbicularis oris, all the other facial muscles work when one frowns, the anti-wrinkle formula is simple, babe, keep on smiling.
I open my closet, pick a Guess underwear, a faded denim, black shirt, wear them and pull a leather jacket over my shirt. I stare back at the mirror. "Nah!" I say, "I wanna look punk."
My attention is caught by the clothes I wore a while back to work: Banana Republic khakis, Guess polo, Rockports, Pearle Vision eyeglasses, "You're so cheap, boy!" I laugh at myself.
I pull down my pants, replace it with leather jeans, Versace marked, yeah, bless his soul, apply gothic mascara on my face, like Count Dracula, and am impressed by how much I can "update" my looks.
I rarely leave my apartment except to work or do groceries or buy clothes. For the rest of my days, I limit myself inside this apartment, resting, reading, watching TV. I've done enough goodtime in Manila, it's my time to rest. But then, there are days like today -
I walk out of my apartment and linger in the garden, pause, stop, holding a cup of coffee, I smell the flowers, the evening Florida air; a big red ant crawls on my shoe, I half-kneel to watch it move confidently, so cocksure of self. I blow it away.
I drive out of the apartment complex, park my car behind the hang-out called Pier, all by myself, enter the bar(like ant - confident cocksure ant), sit on a stool beside the bar, order White Russian, followed by Madris, I watch the video playing, holding my head up, light myself a cigarette. Then,
He arrives, sits on the stool beside me. I size him up.
"Can I bum a cigrette?" he asks. I shift my posture on the stool, give him a lazy bedroom-eyes-look. Turn my head away. Sigh. Slowly lift my left hand, to my leather's left breast pocket (measured moves: slow motion, like pantomime, like dance without music), pull out my Marlboro pack. I hand him a stick, I blow smoke to his face, he inhales it, he takes the cigarette between his lips, lights it, blows smoke, back to me. He orders Heineken, twists its cap open (measured moves: crosses his legs, uncrosses his legs) lifts his bottle, its mouth resting on his mouth, tilts the bottle upside down, gulps, afterwards, blows smoke again, to me. My eyes get locked with his. Unperturbed. Without words, his knee rubs against mine. Our heat is released. Like a matchstick. Fosforo. He presses his knee harder. I get the message. We shake hands. Names exchange.
He pulls my hand towards him, runs his other hand over the back of my head, through my hair. I relax. I watch his face get close to mine: thick eyebrows, brown eyes, well defined nose, thin moustache, getting closer, closer to me... We kiss, his tongue tastes Heineken, soft lips, wet, delicate. No stopping. Unaware of the crowd. Shameless. Our bodies are locked. Others follow our example. Partners grab one another. Now holding hands. Now embracing. Now face to face. Mouth to mouth.
Music. Music. Music.
"Lets get outta here," he whispers to me. I follow him. My footsteps are slow, my cadence rhythmical, my sway consistent. He leans against his Mitsubishi."Come here," he says.
I stand beside my Toyota."No, come here," I say.
He walks to me, leans against me. Presses his body. We resume our kissing. People in the parking lot see us. They start leaning against their cars. Kissing too.
"Let's get outta here," now I say.
"Follow me," he says. I drive. My rooftop is open. The sky is yellow and blue. The moon is bright. I trail his Mitsubishi. Along A1A road.
He parks in a condo complex facing the beach. Well trimmed lawn. Garden of flowers - dark but beautiful - under the moonlight. He walks ahead of me. No staring back. Leaves doors open behind him. To lead me...then...
He disappears, leaving traces of him: shoes on the landing of the stairs, socks just behind the door, belt on the hallway, tie hanging by the lampshade, slacks spread on the doorway to the bedroom, shirt on top of the bed. He isn't inside. The bedroom is lit inside by many candles, romantic Mozart is playing. The sliding glass door leading to the balcony is left ajar, a puff of air, smells like the sea, enters the bedroom, it touches my skin.
The moon shines over Miami, its rays drop on the figure reclining on a long wicker chair, naked, like a statue, like a god, holding a glass, his nakedness partly hidden behind potted ferns, thick ferns in the balcony. It's not the pale moon, that invites me, that excites me, it's the nearness of you.
Happy anniversary... fifth anniversary.We greet each other.