Straight Boy
Right now, I don’t know what that straight boy is doing. In my not-so-big head, there are still a few scenes of him left:
He’s watching TV, telling me about soccer stars in some match that I know absolutely nothing about, looking so cute while he does it. When a goal goes in he gets excited, grabs me, and shouts. He’ll also stare intently at the news, caring about everything happening on the planet, and will explain to me in detail exactly where the capital of Norway is. When I get tired and don’t want to listen anymore, he just goes back to watching TV by himself.
He had a basketball game the next day, and the night before he called me, asking me to go eat with his classmates the following evening. I sat quietly in a corner of the court, surrounded by other girls screaming and swooning. Holding the long pants he’d changed out of in my arms, I knew I would unconsciously bring them to my face and smell them. He surely never noticed that little gesture of mine; what he hoped for was a knowing glance from me after he scored. The game ended, we sat for a while, the court emptied out, leaving just the two of us — a couple that wasn’t a couple. Only then could I openly stare at his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he drank water.
He got into a fight, like a little kid, face flushed red. He fought with real passion, but I hurried away — I didn’t want to see him bleed.
I asked him: “Do you like me? Why do you always stay with me?” He hesitated a little and said: “Maybe in my next life, when I’m normal.” My head went fuzzy, and I could only force out a smile and let it pass. I knew then: the greatest distance in the world is the one between a bent straight boy and the girl who loves him deeply.
On the last day of senior year, I stayed very late, because I wanted so badly to hold onto the taste of that moment. I’d brought a little bottle, and filled it with chalk dust — from class, and from the bulletin boards I used to draw. When I was about to leave, I noticed he hadn’t left yet either. We looked at each other for a moment; he stood up to break the awkwardness, and then I found myself being held by him, my nose filled with a scent that was almost a man’s — mingled with tobacco, sport cologne, and the spray he used when he coughed.
Years later, I saw him standing at a bus stop with some other guys, leering and rating the girls passing by.
Darling, I miss you. Tell me — how far apart are we, how many light-years? Heh, if you were beside me, you’d surely help me work out the answer.