Mechanics
I feel old in this kind of setting. Somebody taps me on my shoulder and I turn, facing Slyth. She passes me a drink, asks me a question I could only make out from her mouth. I said what? I can’t hear you, loudly on top of the music, and lean close forward, brushing her full length. She laughs and says, “What a lame way to cop a feel, Mike,” she smiles and waves as she moves away. Mike. My old name, back in high-school when we all wanted something westernized. Ali turned to Al, Johan, Joe. Of course, myself would be Mike. Sue, code name Slyth over some cartoon character, was my best girl buddy in school, the kind that you would make out at the back of the class with after school with no remorse or complexities afterwards. We were both experimenting, young and horny. She was a stunner even back then, all curves underneath her blue pinafore. Now we are at her house with her husband, some fucking rich stud with a yacht, and she goes with her name Suhana, and almost half of the school is present. She calls me Mike, and she is still the same woman I knew and loved back then. Somebody laughs, and it emanates from across the room. I do not need to turn my head around to know whose voice it belongs to. I’ve heard it a million times, at various situations and decibels. You tell yourself, sometimes you’ve got to make a clean break. Once it is over, it’s over. Still, certain things still reel me in. Like, an ex’s perfume, or my deceased younger sister’s doe eyes. Her laughter. Slyth comes over, and we talk about work. She tells me she’s proud of me, and she knew it from the start that I’ll make something out of myself. I tell her she’s still the same but also different, and we joke about sneaking into the backyard and making out. I comment on her husband, “He is sure well-fed,” and she pokes me. “He’s my soulmate, and God, I know it’s icky,” she says and I reassure her that things really have changed, cause she’s gone whippped. “Hey Mike,” She stands in front of me, her body poised and cocked. This is her all right, confident and brazen, facing everything at face level. Nothing fazes her, she is hardly rattled, and for that fact alone guys are constantly barraging towards her, sometimes even inside the small studio apartment we rented together to challenge me into a fistfight. The best man always wins, of course. Of course. “So,” she starts, “I heard about what happened in Bangkok. Congratulations.” Her asset is in the way she carries herself, bold and assertive. Her fierce confidence alone is enough to blind a man. Everybody thinks she doesn’t get ruffled, but I have seen her in hysterics over a small lump discovered in her breast, the same lump I myself checked out while her body racked with sobs. I soothed her nerves when she was handling her first ever tough case, saw her hands shaking while she drank coffee and went through her briefs before the court hearing. I was there, in the car, when she sometimes bit her lower lip, her hand frozen on the car handle, and asked me, “They’re going to love me in there aren’t they? Just tell me I’m going to be fine.” Yes she was fierce, and that was attractive, but her imperfections were far more appealing for me. I loved the fact that she needed me, that she trusted me, and that I mattered enough in her life to provide her the support she wants. I feel funny even thinking about it now. “So,” this time it is me who starts, “how have you been?” “You should come to the wedding,” she says. “I’ll really love it if you could make it.” It’s funny, but I don’t feel like laughing. I am wondering why after so many years and women, I still feel like I am 15, and I just missed scoring a goal.
Without warning she is in front of me, holding her cup close to her body, with a wide smile on her face.
Speaking of things changing, I think, weren’t you supposed to be my soulmate once? God only knows how this woman had me on my toes all of 7 years, even 345423 miles separated.
I lift my glass up in a toast, an agreement, a thank you. “Thanks.”
Smiling, she lifts up her hand, and I see the rock, shining and tiny. That’s my girl, I think, you don’t waste a beat.
“Nice,” I lie. “Congratulations.” More lies.
Dude, she still pouts the same pout. And she has some fucking rock on her finger.
