Banter

I really missed the Irishman last night. Although M’s really lovely. He’s little bit older than someone I’d date and is introducing me to so many new ideas, which is wonderful. We went out drinking and got ourselves a bunch of mojitos till the last call forced us to sober up a little. But I missed the constant banter like it was with P and I, joking endlessly till tears streamed down my face from laughing so much. I don’t think anybody’s made me laugh as much as he did in such a short while.

It kind of sucks when you meet someone you connect so well to, emotionally and physically, but you have to let them go because your worlds are strikingly different and like lines, you intersect only once in a lifetime. 

I suppose there’s no point in trying to find a replacement. There can’t be. Every lover is unique, every lover has their own set of stories. 

It certainly doesn’t help that I haven’t gotten my period yet and I’m starting to get a little bit anxious because I remember getting one right after I was hooking up with B. I know I’m not preggers because I wasn’t ovulating when I was with P and we were careful to be protected, even putting our friskiness on hold when we ran out of condoms in the morning of our marathon date.

M smelt really nice yesterday though. He was wearing a white shirt and seemed like he showered and shaved after work, before coming to pick me up. I love me a man who smells good. Not the cheapass axe perfume kind, but a nice cologne. I’m dying to run my hands over his face and see what he feels like.

I remember P wearing some kind of a perfume on our last night together. It was irresistible. Also a little bit funny because neither of us made an effort to look particularly attractive the first time we met because obviously we did not anticipate the whirlwind that would follow. 

Once back home, my heart feels so heavy. I really do enjoy M’s company. He’s so charming, a perfect gentleman. I can’t help but miss P a little too much, especially after the alcohol has clouded my judgement. I type out a long, surprisingly coherent message to him. Maybe he’s reached home already, maybe he’s somewhere in transit. There’s no point in hoping for any sort of a miracle really because I really don’t think I’ll get to be with him again. So best I can do is move on really.

It’s a little bit strange that I was able to get over the boyfriend with relative ease. Maybe because we did spend a considerable amount of time together. 

I don’t know. My heart is in knots. I need time to get over this guy. I really do. This one’s really done a number on me. 

Love is wonderful.

And all kinds of strange. 

Courtship

I like his apartment, it’s minimal with white walls everywhere. There’s a sense of calm about his house, him. 

I can’t believe my luck that this gorgeous Italian man is cooking for me. What is this life!

As we snack on bruschetta and scamorza on bread, he makes some martini for the two of us. In the sunlight, his eyes shine. He’s wearing a white worker’s shirt which makes the blue in them pop even more. He’s beautiful. I nearly blurt it out but I refrain. 

We chat for a long time before heading into the kitchen. I’m his sous chef, keeping him company as he’s careful to not let the pasta sauce burn. 

Simple. Elegant. Just like him. 

After lunch, we skip our plan to watch movies. I want to talk to him. We talk culture and politics over glasses of wine. I’m curious, I like picking his brain.

We make plans immediately to meet again.

I want to.

We talk all the time anyway. Might as well do it face to face.

M’s been living in Calcutta for so long and it’s strange we hadn’t met before. But that’s even more reason to make up for all the time lost.

 

Pot of Gold

I’m still reeling from the whirlwind of the past few days. I haven’t showered yet, I smell of him still. 

“You’re so beautiful” he keeps saying. Well, he isn’t too bad himself.

He’s funny, intelligent, sensitive and so good looking with his blonde hair turned dark with shades of grey in them. He doesn’t look his age, so much younger, like me in a way. I think we make a good fit. His eyes are almost greenish brown, his gaze is piercing. He looks at me as we make love, cups his hands around my head. I feel like his lover, I feel loved. 

We spend hours running our fingers down each other’s body and holding hands. I place my head on his shoulder, curl up into a ball as we spoon.

At night we hold each other as we sleep. We twist and turn, yet always holding each other in a way or another.

****

It’s dark and gloomy outside, about to rain. I look at the polaroids we took on night 1. We look deliriously happy. 

If I die tomorrow, it won’t all be in vain. I met a man and we fell in love and said our goodbye. I’m happy I could love, I’m happy I was loved. 

“I feel lucky to have met you and even though our time together was short, I learned so much from you. You’re a beautiful person inside and out”

Words. 

He says exactly what I want to hear.

He says exactly how I feel. 

My 6-foot tall leprechaun, the one who leaves with a piece of my heart always.