Sunday, May 17, 2009

I would imagine

It seems I've stumbled upon a new friend, and I being the very wayward person that I am, already think about the possibility of an affair (isn't there always that possibility with every friend that you make?). I imagine one of these days, when I go there to do research for my thesis, I'd give him a call, we'd meet up for coffee somewhere, and when we meet, I imagine we would have a certain unspoken and undeniable attraction for each other. It probably won't be a physical attraction --I know myself, I hardly can do physical attraction, and besides, I don't up keep my body enough for a likely chance of a physical attraction. It'd probably be a likeness that somehow cannot be ignored and must be satisfied. A likeness that whines and gnaws at both of us until we acknowledge it and look at it in the face. We'd probably meet for coffee again, maybe even once more. Then, like Benjamin Button and his first affair, we'd just give up trying to deny our curiosity. By that time we'd be comfortable enough with each other that we would have finished our time of being coy and awkward. On that third or fourth meeting, we'd take each other to a hotel, and on the way there we'd be talking about something serious and but uncomplicated, because while we've made up our minds about sleeping with each other, there's still a certain sense of nervousness, perhaps from not ever having done anything like this before, or perhaps because while we try to think and act like we're mature adults of the books we both ferociously read, deep down we're still kind of childish and worry about how the other would look at us when we're naked, maybe the other would find us unattractive when we've stripped down to our underwear, or maybe after we've stripped down our underwear, when we have totally and absolutely exposed ourselves (because it's very very hard to maintain any kind of facade of confidence and certainty when you're naked). We won't tell each other this childish worry, of course. We'd just come off as sure and confident by pretendig to talk seriously about something else trivial. When we arrive at the hotel room, we'd spend a few minutes chatting, probably, and then, who'd make the first move? Because it's my story, I probably should make the first move. I'd reach for his hand, pull him gently towards me, and we'd kiss. Once the first move's been made, it's much easier. Would I close my eyes? Probably not. For two reasons: a small disbelief that this new friend actually finds me attractive, because in my mind and in my eyes I am so plain, as plain as plain can be, and that I'm actually having an affair--it's hard to imagine it, I'm so used to the idea of loyalty, of monogamy, of staying true to your husband. But this new friend is so intelligent, so smart and funny with words. He could say and write things that I can only think but don't have the language to express. If my mother has given me my language of life and intimacy, he gives me the language of knowledge, of ideas, of the possibility for a transnational and translational world I love and adore and desire. This is a desire to be outside of myself. This is also a desire, buried in the subconscious that sometimes surface, a wish of a different life, one that does not involve husbands or children or family. One where I can be myself by myself for myself. (Haven't all housewives desired this one way or another?).

After we've made love, he'd drift off to sleep, while I'd be awake because I don't want to sleep (in fact, what I'd probably be wanting is a cigarette, even though I don't smoke anymore and am actually against cigarettes). I'd look at him sleeping on the bed, and think about whether or not he's as handsome as some have said about him. He's young, and talented (he's my age and speaks several languages). He's kind of nerdy, and thin, which makes him all the more attractive. He probably has a girlfriend, and loves her very much (they're perfect for each other, the power couple), which is fine and wonderful because I don't plan on making any more of this affair than an evening of love making. I don't intend on loving him. I don't intend on leaving my husband--one is enough. I'd probably leave when he's still sleeping. I'd leave him to pay for the hotel, of course. That's just how things are done. Next time I'm in the area, we'd meet up for coffee again, and we'd make love in a hotel room again, and again I'd leave when he's sleeping. If he should ever meet my husband, I'd introduce him as my friend, of course. And while I say I don't intend on loving him, somehow, some part of me, does, in some way. He's like a little treasure I keep locked in my jewery box.

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