Life Worth Living

Guess who I saw two nights ago completely unexpectedly, completely out of the blue, completely by accident? No. 1. I was in his house. I was standing on his floor. I was drinking coffee that he made me. I’d heard on the grapevine that he was in Dubai.

He saw me first. I don’t know if I would’ve even known he was there if he hadn’t yelled my name and pulled down his fake beard upon my request. I was surprised that he recognized me, the girl who was nothing more than someone who was once in one—no, two—of his classes, who liked him and tried too hard to talk to him. And then I thought—why is it a surprise at all? We had been friends. I’ve told myself this and I recognize that it’s so sad that when I look back on that year I remember him as the guy I liked and only recall after several minutes of nostalgic pining that he was my friend first. And maybe that’s why we’re not in contact anymore: I didn’t make the effort because I didn’t feel like his friend, I felt like one girl out of so many who liked him, and thus not entitled.

He said something to me in German that got lost in the din, and we tried to catch up while costumed partygoers squeezed past us in the narrow hallway. He leaned close so that I could hear him over the music and the confusion, and I looked into his eyes, and they were just as blue as I had remembered. He said, “I really want coffee—do you want coffee?”I replied, “YES. Youaremykindoman!” That last in my head.

And then he went to grind beans and start up the stove (because that’s how hipsters make coffee, apparently) and I was left standing there, my mind abuzz. For the record, I wasn’t sober, although he might have been. Perhaps I made a bad second-first impression. I determinedly tried to remember Leone, how much I care for him, how much more perfect he is than No. 1. How Leone can give No. 1 a serious run for his money in the looks department, even with those dash-your-heart-upon-them baby blues. No. 1′s arms were probably no thicker than mine, and his caveman costume was uncomfortably short in some places, and yet I stood there and wasn’t sure if I still wanted him.

I don’t think I did. I think that maybe I would want him in a schoolgirl way, just to want him, but ultimately I don’t think I like him anymore. Nor am I certain anymore that we would fit together perfectly. It’s hard not to want to throw yourself at him (I saw several girls batting their eyelashes at him throughout the night), but if anything the party was a confirmation that those loose ends are finally tied. I felt immediately guilty for even thinking that I could still like No. 1 somewhere inside me that’s been dormant for three years, and later in bed with Leone I tried to pretend that he was No. 1 to see if there was anything there and my own mind slapped me back like a shot.

But still, I miss him as a friend, and I think finally I’ve let go of my like for him enough that I can just be his friend, nothing else. I think. I think? I’m no longer entirely sure. Maybe I’ll never be free of him, but it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t interfere with what I have with Leone, and I’m not going to let it.

I started working on this post in the middle of September, and it’s been sitting more than a full month. The guilt I feel for not finishing this has prevented me from posting anything else I’ve wanted to. I figured it’s about time I’m done with this.

Leone finally, finally came home on the night of August 26, a Tuesday, two days before the semester started. That night was also the night of the very first party of the year (or so Buttercup said), held at one of the bigger frathouses, and a not-to-be-missed occasion (or so Buttercup said). I fretted. I really couldn’t care less if it was the first party of the year or the last; all I wanted was to see my boyfriend who’d been abroad the last month and a half. It didn’t matter that a month and a half was probably nothing to Buttercup, whose own boyfriend lives in San Diego. Since I’d first started talking to Leone there haven’t been more than 2 occasions on which we didn’t speak for an entire day. I missed him, and I couldn’t wait to be with him again.

At the same time, I didn’t want to start the year off on the sour chord struck by choosing my boyfriend over my friends, however understandable my motives. And for some reason, Buttercup was adamant I didn’t miss this party. Even if I was clearly torn. Even if Jasmine too expressed disinterest in partying that night.

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I woke up this morning missing sunny San Diego, and feeling slightly strange about it because of how unfeelingly I’d bid goodbye to it the previous afternoon. It wasn’t that I hadn’t had fun; just for some reason, leaving it made me feel no regret. Until this morning, when I opened my eyes and realised I was alone and bored again.

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Friday (short version): Wake up absurdly late as per usual, work just enough to justify taking the rest of the day off, attend birthday party of the boyfriend’s best friend’s girlfriend, fool around with the boyfriend, sleep at an unholy hour.

Saturday morning (today): Wake up at 6:50 AM. Throw up in my boyfriend’s bathroom.

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Was going to have a completely PG 20 night with Buttercup (since LAME-O’s Jasmine, Rosemary, and Leone opted not to come) until we got a call from this guy that we met about a month ago—after I’d come back from the night mentioned in Last Night—(Wow I’m not sober enough to make sense or worry about grammar right now) and he said “come over to my place I have people coming over. It’s Saturday night, time to get it kickin’.” So we deliberated for a while, and then we headed over. We’d been drinking anyways; time to put it to good use.

We got there, and there were a few people. I remember everyone hanging out on the roof and me coming back inside, leaning out the window to peek at everyone talking about Yes Men, when one of the guys (who I knew had been coming on to me from that first night) who was roaring drunk, leaned across the window from me and said, “I’m attracted to you. Like sexually.”

“Oh…” I said. What else could I say? I wanted to tell him I had a boyfriend, but somehow it wouldn’t come out. And I kept thinking about him tonight. Leone, I mean. My boyfriend. God, that’s odd to say. I think it’s because I’ve gone 20 years without one that it feels so weird to have him. Leone. It’s hard to wrap my head around that fact, you know? I have a boyfriend. Well. I don’t know why it was so hard to spit that fact out, but it was. In fact, I never did. I had to rely on Buttercup to divulge it for me.

I’m working on it. And now I’m sleepy. So goodnight.

Under the eerie glow of the blacklight I danced, the tabletop slippery with wetness that might have been water, sweat, jungle juice, or a conglomeration of things I’d rather not consider. My tiger-striped tunic had long been discarded in a corner, the tank-top I was wearing under it was damp with sweat, and the heat trapped by my hair felt oppressive, stifling. My hips swayed, grinded, and swiveled.

At our feet on the dance floor dark bodies punctuated by blue-white accents pulsed and milled but we paid them no mind. Now and again a dark figure would clamber up onto the table and pull laughing friends up behind them, but no one stayed for more than a few songs. Frequently we were approached by guys asking us to dance, their faces obscured by the darkness. One after another, they faded into each other. After the first few test-runs I learned to decline politely and no longer required intervention from Jasmine.

We submerged ourselves in the anonymity. It was a mindless surrender, persisting long after most of the effect of the alcohol had faded or been sweated out and we were high on our own adrenaline alone. It was exhilarating, invigorating, amazing. I’d never danced like that before, up on a table where the entire dance floor could see me. I’d never danced for almost four hours straight like that.

Three hours in two tall guys bounded up before us, and without missing a beat we regarded them through wary eyes, ready to turn down any overtures. Instead, bobbing to the music, they said, “Man, you guys have been up here for hours. You’re like champions.”

Well, champion or not, that night I certainly felt like one.

Before I say anything, I think I should divulge the thing that’s been on the back of my mind since last weekend, making it impossible to completely let loose even when I’m letting loose, namely, that I have two papers due on Tuesday, one of which which is going to be hell. And that’s the first thing I thought of when Buttercup asked me to go to a party with her, Jasmine, and another friend of ours, Daisy, hosted by the same people who host about half the parties we go to. Seeing as how I do most of my work between the hours of 10 PM and 2 AM, especially on weekends, it would be a large chunk of time to lose. But Buttercup and Jasmine had been guilting me all week and I knew I would probably end up going in.

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It was so awkward the first two hours, sitting there in a room of tipsy people I didn’t know, watching Leone be friendly with another girl. But he kept coming back to me, back to me. And then we all of us were on the bed lying all over each other and Leone came up on my right side and wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck and ran his arms up and down my torso. And I curled my fingers into his hair and put my arms around his neck and let him hold me.

One of the two other girls there called a taxi before I was ready to leave. Leone beckoned me into the other room. He said, “Nothing sexual, and no pressure either way, but you’re welcome to sleep in my bed.”

I demurred, and all the while my mind screamed “STAY”. We dilly-dallied. Finally he said, “I don’t think you understand. I’m asking you to stay.”

I wanted to. I wanted to so badly, so badly. But I knew that leaving was the right thing to do, and I knew that when I told him I had to go, and I knew that as I sat in the taxi on the way back, and I know that still now. I wanted to stay and spend the night in his arms, but I know I made the right choice.

So now I go, not quite sober, to my bed alone, and wish I still had his arms around me.

—

The really long sober version that I wrote the next morning can be found here.

Last Saturday Buttercup, Jasmine, and I went to a party. For once—for ONCE—I had zero interest in chatting up guys. I remember when I used to go to parties and my first priority was to meet a hot guy. On Saturday? I had to plead with Buttercup and Jasmine to leave the packed kitchen and come dance with me in the empty living room, the three of us, convulsively, wonderfully, to music by ourselves. I dont even like to dance, but half of that party we spent on the dancefloor alone, and the other half we spent in the laundry room, our little haven.

Towards the end of the night other people started feeling the joys of smirnoff and they came out into the living room too. Let me interject here by pointing out that it was a South-American themed party—the boys were all shirtless. Yet I barely even looked. One of them that fell halfway between the scale that night of “mamma mia” and “No, get away from me”, who might’ve even landed himself a spot on the higher end of it if I’d been paying attention, had his eyes set on me. He could dance up behind me and grind me, wrap his arms around me, press his entire body up against me. I was sure of it—there was something very happy in his pants. I felt it.

And every time I think about it, all I think is, “if I didn’t like Leone so much, that erection wouldn’t have had to go to waste.” It’s true. Whatever part of the scale he was on, he was attractive enough that I would’ve taken him home and blown him. Essentially, he was cockblocked by Leone, and neither of them know it. In a way, it’s funny. Poor guy; I hope he found another girl that night.

You may have noticed that this story was all just a clever lead-in to what I really wanted to talk about. Leone, duh. I dont have that much to say, only that with the exception of Saturday night (when I was busy dancing drunkenly and avoiding advances), for about a week now, I have spent every single night talking to him online, and never for less than three hours. Every single night. Continuous conversation. Never for less than three hours, sometimes for up to five. Up to 4 AM, never ending before 2 AM, and rarely before 3. I just wanted to point out that that’s not normal acquaintance behavior; it may not even be normal friend behavior.

Buttercup is even happier about this as I am, it seems. When I told her that I liked Leone (in that same laundry room) (this is the first time I’ve ever told anyone that I liked a boy without it being 2 years after the fact) she squealed in delight. She told me that she was determined to get the two of us together; she would help. But as I told her two nights ago, I am 90% sure that I dont need her help. (Um, it sounds mean when I say it here. I didn’t mean it that way, I swear.) Her new roommate remarked that that’s pretty good, an A-. I didn’t say that I really am more than 90% sure, but I rounded down.

And I’m less scared now. There are still sometimes I’m afraid that I made a misstep somewhere, or that one thing I said made him reconsider, but for the most part, I think that’s just the over analyzing part of me coming out. It’ll be okay.

I’m fairly sure that the Berkeley campus is having a mass hangover. No one on the streets, no one at the gym…I hope some people at least had more fun than I did. Well actually, I’m not that type of person, the kind ones the world really needs, who are happy for other people and willing to settle for trickle-down joy. And my Halloween was a little less than stellar.

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