Something must happen. I refuse to be sad. No more thoughts about what could have been. I will not hold his head, look into his brown eyes, touch his beautiful face or black curly hair. I will not push my lips against his. It will not happen. It will not. I pick up the phone, open Tinder. The sorrow comes immediately, in my arms. But I’m the master of my sorrow now. I decide how to grieve.
The new match is smiling. He looks cute. He’s eleven years younger than me. I’m cursing the fact that I’m considering if he’s too young. I want to meet you, I say. Coffee in an hour? Yes, I’d love to, he says.
He rips of the bandage when he sees me. He knew at once it was me. It means I look like my pictures. That’s good. I guess. Don’t want to trick someone into meeting me. He breaks all the rules and hugs me. For a couple of seconds my body’s in shock. Who is this guy? How could he? Is he walking around hugging people? Haram. Ha, ram. Or maybe he wanted to pull me into his cohort.
The sweater is perfect for his chest. They suit each other. Something is happening. Short moments where his pupils expand. Does it happen to me as well? I hope I’m not blushing. I’m blushing. How embarrassing. I have everything but control. The eleven missing years is resting in his body as a tight hope. Of everything that might be. Everything that could happen. Hair, skin, muscles. They are waiting for it. He talks about his family, mentions his father. There is something with his skin. It lets go. Now I see it. He’s old. He’s a young old. He’s so beautiful I can’t help but take his hand in mine.
Everything was going so well. Why did he have to take my hand? He had pulled all my clothes off, kissed my whole body, like he said he wanted to. Two soft lips, one wet tongue, soft beard. Together they could’ve vacuum cleaned my skin. He could’ve sucked it all away but he did the opposite. For every kiss, every caress, he put a layer on my skin. A layer with paint, insulation, roofing felt, protection, sealed the leak. He took nothing with him. He left it all behind.
He had been close for a while now. We both knew what he was going to do. We both knew what I wanted him to do. He finally spread my legs and kissed me. So soft, so warm. He shouldn’t have done it. Searched for my hand. He should’ve continued to hold his hand tight around my thigh. Why did he do that, searched for my hand, found it and held it while he kissed me between my legs? It was way to intimate to hold my hand. He shouldn’t have. It is not okay to hold someone’s hand without asking. I didn’t know what to do. I had been pulled out of it. I wanted in again.
Behind my closed eyes I could feel something. It was behind me. Like a warm will. Behind my lid I turned around. And there he was. Finally. Finally I could see him. My struggle to get back in lifted of and revealed my eyes to him. So obviously wanting him. He looked straight at me. I didn’t know this was looking into someone’s eyes. I vacuum cleaned him with my eyes. Leaving nothing behind. I have to remember this. Remember this. The black hair, the big soft lips. Him holding my hand. It was him I held in my hand. He was here. I found him in the hand of the tinder date. My throat burned. I pulled myself away from the brown eyes and bit the pillow while my eyes got wet. I will not let this happen. I’m in control. The brown eyes have to go. But he touched the inside of my hand. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to control this. I let go of the pillow, drew the air down into my lungs, put the other hand on the back of his head, finally felt his soft, curly, black hair against the palm of my hand, spread my legs more and pulled the tinder dates head even closer while he pushed his tongue inside of me. I’m here. I’m here with you.