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Literature Text
We spent a thousand nights strumming on guitars, coming up with silly songs and ways to get along. I always knew what I was doing every weekend back then; Agustín's house was always open to our very close-knitted bipolar group for tequila shots and couch lounging. We went out if we got antsy, stayed in if sleep won over.
This was the only way Juan and I went with the flow, following everyone but still within our little bubble of fun. There is no other way to describe the void we made, big enough so that we could both fit in, engulfed by huge ticklish soapy walls. These were transparent enough for people to see us and believe we were there with them – truth was, we just focused on each other's laughter all night long.
We were there once again, playing guitar and screaming blurred lyrics into the air, oblivious to the fact that everyone had traded the cold night sky for a food-promising kitchen. I lit up a cigarette and laughed at nothing. Back then, with him, even nonentities were sprinkled with hilarity.
"So, how come you noticed me?" Juan had finally ventured into sincerity land, swimming past giggles and half-witty comebacks.
I used to be good at pool. He was playing on the table beside ours when we met, wearing a cowboy hat. A cowboy hat! It was infatuation with the uncommon at first sight. Three beers and tens of silent smirks later, I was wearing it whilst he showed me how to improve my game. He just had a good time that night, he said. He played with his beer bottle and started peeling the label off, glancing up to smile: "remember Agustín's birthday?"
Of course I did. Two weeks after our pool encounter I was on my way to some stranger's birthday party, full of unknown tipsy faces and cheap whiskey. Juan had opened the door and let me in. In my hands were two green balloons and a McDonald's Happy Meal box that concealed several trivial toys stolen from a mover’s cardboard crate back at home. One of them was a tiny plastic figure of a dog, an exact down-to-scale replica of Agustín's own, except for the extra paint chips.
"Oh yeah, he loved the German Shepherd," I giggled. And he had. It still decorated his room up in the second floor.
"That was it for me".
"People must have thought I was an idiot," I mused, only half-serious. Yet, he still came over and wrapped his arms around me, kissing my temple. He pushed my hair off my shoulders, letting it cascade down my back.
He grinned: "if there are only two ways to be happy, then you're heading down the right way".
"Acting like an idiot?"
"It's better than being one," he teased.
He paid for my bus fare that night. We took the 104 down to Arocena and walked the remaining distance back to my house, randomly stopping for uncalled-for hugs and casual lingering. We avoided kissing, as if we already knew we were further down another road that led to tacky ties and cafeteria panic attacks.
Once at my house, he sat on the curve and I followed. He put his arm around my waist and silently rested his head on mine.
"Your eyes twinkle a lot," was all I said.
"I think you only like me for what's bizarre in me," was what he answered.
And we drowned back into silence, feeling fuzzy despite the evident truth.
This was the only way Juan and I went with the flow, following everyone but still within our little bubble of fun. There is no other way to describe the void we made, big enough so that we could both fit in, engulfed by huge ticklish soapy walls. These were transparent enough for people to see us and believe we were there with them – truth was, we just focused on each other's laughter all night long.
We were there once again, playing guitar and screaming blurred lyrics into the air, oblivious to the fact that everyone had traded the cold night sky for a food-promising kitchen. I lit up a cigarette and laughed at nothing. Back then, with him, even nonentities were sprinkled with hilarity.
"So, how come you noticed me?" Juan had finally ventured into sincerity land, swimming past giggles and half-witty comebacks.
I used to be good at pool. He was playing on the table beside ours when we met, wearing a cowboy hat. A cowboy hat! It was infatuation with the uncommon at first sight. Three beers and tens of silent smirks later, I was wearing it whilst he showed me how to improve my game. He just had a good time that night, he said. He played with his beer bottle and started peeling the label off, glancing up to smile: "remember Agustín's birthday?"
Of course I did. Two weeks after our pool encounter I was on my way to some stranger's birthday party, full of unknown tipsy faces and cheap whiskey. Juan had opened the door and let me in. In my hands were two green balloons and a McDonald's Happy Meal box that concealed several trivial toys stolen from a mover’s cardboard crate back at home. One of them was a tiny plastic figure of a dog, an exact down-to-scale replica of Agustín's own, except for the extra paint chips.
"Oh yeah, he loved the German Shepherd," I giggled. And he had. It still decorated his room up in the second floor.
"That was it for me".
"People must have thought I was an idiot," I mused, only half-serious. Yet, he still came over and wrapped his arms around me, kissing my temple. He pushed my hair off my shoulders, letting it cascade down my back.
He grinned: "if there are only two ways to be happy, then you're heading down the right way".
"Acting like an idiot?"
"It's better than being one," he teased.
He paid for my bus fare that night. We took the 104 down to Arocena and walked the remaining distance back to my house, randomly stopping for uncalled-for hugs and casual lingering. We avoided kissing, as if we already knew we were further down another road that led to tacky ties and cafeteria panic attacks.
Once at my house, he sat on the curve and I followed. He put his arm around my waist and silently rested his head on mine.
"Your eyes twinkle a lot," was all I said.
"I think you only like me for what's bizarre in me," was what he answered.
And we drowned back into silence, feeling fuzzy despite the evident truth.
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A friend, after reading my poems, asked me to write prose. She suggested I wrote about one of the sweetest/romantic memories I have, with the condition that it HAD to be real. She was curious about what my prose voice sounded like, as well as just wanted to know about the memory.
This is what I wrote.
This is what I wrote.
© 2006 - 2024 Guccipiggy8
Comments30
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I'm glad that your friend convinced you to try writing this. It's very good. Congratulations on getting chosen in the Oct. UA feature. This was well worth the time to read.
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