Twenty four hours earlier, I sat here at my computer and watched time tick away slowly, till the day arrived that would have marked one whole year with Boy. And now, I sat here again, waiting and watching till the clock announced the day was finally over. A part of me was dreading if he called or messaged, wondering what my reaction would have been - I know, though: anger and irritation, coupled with a lot of relief. But he didn't call. Or message. Maybe he was waiting for me. Maybe I'm just pathetic.
It's been two weeks now, or something like that. And today, of all days, they played Strangers In The Night so many times in the world - once at the five star hotel lobby where I waited for my client to arrive, and then at dinner, when the family and I went out. And despite myself, despite my resolve to not let myself delve on him or the past or my version of the possible future, I allowed myself to get melancholic. For the record, both the dates I mentioned in the previous post went rather well - I thought I struck a great connection with the Party Guy, and even Cute Doc was terribly sweet on our date last night. And while I'm looking forward to meeting both of them again... especially Party Guy... I also know that none of them are... Boy.
None of them are that cute Gujarati guy with the long nose and the stupid American accent who came over to my house for afternoon sex, and then stopped in the middle, asking if he could come back later in the evening to take me out for a 'real' date because he wanted to 'know' me... I remember, I made him wait that first time - he was waiting patiently, while I was hurrying up in the shower, throwing on a shirt, a pair of jeans, and then when we finally stepped out, he got into the elevator with me, and whispered, eyes gleaming, 'You look stunning...!'
That first date, we went to Bombay Blues and he wanted me to order. He looked cockily at me, and said, 'You can tell a lot about a person from the way and things that he orders for dinner,' and I grinned back at him. That was when I learnt he doesn't eat sea food or prawns or mutton, and only has boneless chicken. Your typical Non vegetarian Gujju.
On December 30, we went to this Punjabi restaurant in Dadar, which had the full ethnic look, complete with shamiana and sitar-strumming musicians, and the NRI in him loved that stuff. And then he surprised me by saying he knew a Bengali song, cuz he'd performed to it once, and then he proceeded to sing it. I still have that recording of him singing 'Aay re aay' on my phone.
On December 31, we went to Bandra, shopping for the New Year's Eve GB party. We went to this shop on Hill Road, where he tried on these outrageously shiny shirts, and I dissolved into laughter and took snaps of him on my cell phone. He protested his innocence, saying that he needed shiny shirts for when he performed with his dance troupe on stage, but I refused to buy it. Then, later on, when we came back to my place to dress, I tried one of them one, and he had his moment of 'I told you so!'.
I remember the party - Karma, the lower level. I was waiting for Chimneypot to arrive, and was heading out to check for her repeatedly. Then coming back and dancing with my date for the night, who was looking so amazing. There was a stupid Hindi song playing, and he liked my dance moves so much, he hugged me and called it my 'dhishum dhishum' dance steps... and then, that one time when I went out again to check for Chimneypot, I received an sms on my phone from inside: I think I'm fallin in luv... I went right in and kissed him long and hard, without a word. I was stupid. My flatmate said I looked terribly happy that night, and we made a wonderful pair. We did. I was stupid.
When I kept him waiting for four hours at Bandra some weeks later, I knew he'd be livid, so I bought a bunch of daisies for him and thrust them at him as soon as I saw him, before he could say a word. His face changed... completely...!
Why am I writing all of this down? Because I know, if I don't, I'm going to reach for my phone, punch in the US numbers that I know by heart now, and type something stupid I will hate myself for, tomorrow. The blog helps. The blog helps in giving me the space to write what I really wish I could say, but know would be disastrous to. When I have to sit through two sessions of Strangers In The Night, there is not much even Gloria Gaynor can do to get rid of the butterflies in my stomach. And I thought she was foolproof.
Strangers in the night, exchanging glances,
Wondering in the night
What were the chances we'd be sharing love
Before the night was through.
Something in your eyes was so inviting,
Something in your smile was so exciting,
Something in my heart
Told me I must have you.
The verdict: Frank Sinatra wins, hands down.
The verdict: I hate you, Boy. I hate you because despite everything I've tried to do, I realize in my saddest moments that I feel terribly alone without you. I love you still, damnit.
And I'm glad you never came by to read this blog.