Here comes the teacher again.
~B. invited me to drink some sake in this little Japanese restaurant. I told him about my unconditional love for Japanese cuisine and of course he knows the best spots in Taipei. We’re laughing and teasing each other a lot, and between those successive sake shots and glasses of beer (I’m even starting to like drinking beer — it seems like I have no choice for the wine is kind of off my budget), I’m clearly getting drunk.
‘You’re a terrible drinker’ he says. You have no idea, man. A year ago I got hammered with alcohol for the first time in my life. When I was 29. He’s taking me for a stroll under the rain, and I try to improve his musical education by allowing Bowie singing ‘Rebel Rebel’ on my phone. I can’t believe he has no idea who the Pink Floyd’s are. He’s telling me I’m old -musically speaking. But we’re the same age.
~We’re seating on those same concrete steps where I spent my first night in Taipei, watching the planes taking off. Questions and honest answers follows each other. So are the ciggies and the sips of those beers he bought at the convenience store. He asks me if I can feel it, right there, the connection between us. Yes, maybe so, you know, I’m not really sure right now, my brain seems to be filled up with fluffy clouds. Is this just friendship or is there something more to it? He stares at me, looking right into my eyes. What shall I respond, what on hell shall I respond to that? I don’t know. ‘I suggest that I kiss you.’ I burst into laughter. This is way too serious for a first kiss.
~ I make an attempt to sway his rhythm, to bring him to my slower pace, to my own way of sweet kissing. He reminds me of a kid, somehow, a bit inexperienced. He’s trying too hard to do well. I start to think about the teacher. About how he would kiss me, and how he would caress me. I’m thinking about him while my eyes are closed and I’m trying to slow down the tongue moves of this cute guy who told me earlier I was way ‘too’ cute. I know it’s bad, I know it. I’m trying to focus on the now. Almost there. But. He’s holding me a bit too tight. It’s clumsy, it’s fake. It feels empty and meaningless even when he says my hair smells nice — maybe that’s how I lost my New Zealand earring that night.
‘You’re too tall, I can’t hold you.’ How would I know, man? You’re like 10 cm taller than me, right? I apologize. About what? Being myself? I’m so fucking stupid sometimes.
~It’s getting really late, he would like me to come to his place. ‘We could just talk.’ I decline. I would love someone to make love to me though. I’m craving for someone to touch me. And he smells good. I’m still tipsy, yet I decline. Actually what I truly want right now is getting eaten alive by the night. My eyesight is blurry, I haven’t put my glasses on. I’m walking back home, there are no MRT anymore. I’m dancing and singing while walking, it looks like I’m happy tonight. I’m happy because I’m desirable and desired. I’m happy because I’m in love. Not with this cute Taiwanese guy, no way. The teacher is still making my heart sing. And I remember our music nights. Like the time when he puts his headphones on my ears and took me by the hand to wander into the streets of Bruges in the middle of the night. Like the time when we danced in his kitchen, like there were no tomorrow and no flight to catch. He’s already forgetting about me, I know that. There would be plenty of time to feel the pain. Tomorrow. Because, on that night, wandering in those empty streets in the Shilin neighborhood, I’m singing at the top of my lungs. The air is finally cooler because of the rain. I’m not walking straight. I’m still a bit tipsy. I’m still a bit in love.