First of all, I didn’t remember of him that fat. Ok, he’d never been that kind of man just slim and elegant, but he wasn’t fat. But I could have deal with that anyway; I’m not that kind of person which only cares about beauty and elegance. But, wait! I didn’t remember about his teethes. Ok. I remembered, but not this way. After some minutes, I couldn’t look at anything else than his teethes.
Ten minutes after being by his side for the very first time in 6 months, I realized that it was going to be a mistake. Not a mistake because he was a pain in my ass, or something like an insupportable situation, but because it was never going to be like I’d imagined at the first time.
Well, when he came walking in my direction: oh my god, he’s really here, oh my god, he’s hugging me and I can feel he’s shaking, but… oh my god… what would be this smell?
Ok, people don’t smell really good after a 15 hours flight, so I thought that he would have a shower as soon as we got home. But he didn’t. Actually he didn’t even notice that he was like stinking. And after the 6th beer he had this smell like a mixture between passion fruit, alcohol and barley. So I gave up on kissing him on the first night.
But at the day 4 he was still stinky, and oh god, at the road to the beach I had to smoke in my bright new car because I’d rather to feel a smoke smell than his smell, and I didn’t know what to do with the fact that all my teenager’s dreams about the 7 days love-history with a foreign guy was falling apart. I felt so empty. I felt so lost, what would I do?
So at the day 5 I told him that his shirt smelled like a dead rat. I’m sorry, am I crazy or the only one to believe that we shouldn’t have to warn someone that using proper deodorants is a good thing to do? Maybe I’m just too concerned about cleaning?
In the following days I started to see him like a dumb guy. Always talking about him self, always making stale jokes about everything and, sometimes, being a little self concerned about the fact of being a European. “Could I buy this island with my exchange?”, or “oh, you said that you’re deeply in debt because of your new car? But it’s so cheap!”, and oh my god, I wish I had a Glock right now to shot this guy in his face! God damn it!
Where did all my fantasies about him go? How could it be so different from what I was expecting? Did I idealize so damn much about his coming? How many days it would take for him to go? And why he kept on wearing the same stinky shirts?
Ok, I have to admit, I kissed him. Better than this, I tried to kiss him, because I couldn’t. Ok, our lips touched each other, but there was no tongue there to make things more exciting. I felt like an old actress which no men really kisses in a soup-opera, there was only a hard chafe of lips, and I wish I never tried to put a tongue on it. Because his tongue was a like a dead body: a hard and unmoving piece of meat.
He came with that hug for all the nights, till the end of the days. And when I tried to run away from his attempts, he looked at me with that face. That face! Do you know when you are picking with a toothpick and you feel someone looking at you? Well, he was always looking at me with that face! That shy smile, those shine eyes!
But I felt guilty. Because in one way or other, I know I gave him hopes. Ok, I know that! And I’m regretted! It was not a nice thought that the guy spent like a thousand dollars to be here with me for a week, and I was praying for the time to fly and for him to go back home a.s.a.p.! God, what does it turn me into? Dear god!
Ok, fuck him. Isn’t he the rich European who could buy an island with his exchange? I wasn’t giving a shit. But the truth is that I was feeling really bad about sometimes loosing my patience with him.
I worked really hard on not letting him notice my humor. But sometimes it was getting really hard to do it. He didn’t want to go away. He made several jokes on this, offering his flying ticket to a friend of mine, kidding that he was just going back home to take some more clothes.
He went away, and when he was saying goodbye I really felt ashamed of my self, because I was not sad, I was not regretted about my self, I was just… relieved. And looking forward to come back to my reality. Whatever it means.
The fact is that I realized that none reality can beat a fantasy. Every time I take refuge in my own dreams I’m just fighting against my self and my real life. Every time I choose to look at idealizations I’m just barring my own cove.
Because my dreams will always be more colorful and pretty than reality. No matter what, my mind will always create something beautiful and weird to confuse my mind and makes me live in my tiny pink world.
I really need glasses.
I must start to see the world as it really is.
