Date: Wed, 26 Dec 2012 15:02:02 +0100
From: makso kastel <maksokastel@gmail.com>
Subject: Rob

He wasn't this happy and smiling the first time I saw him. It's not that he
wasn't actually happy it's just he wasn't smiling as much. He was a bit of
a prick the first time to be honest. At least he came across as such to me.
He was rumbling about the places we were all traveling through and at the
beginning I enjoyed it immensely. As he continued for several hours and
took his monologue to another level of insignificant data nobody was
interested anymore. The whole tour bus was almost shouting at him to stop
it already till much later he finally dropped it and fell asleep somewhere
in Germany.

I really didn't like his endless word stream pouring out but he had
something about him that caught my attention. I liked his eyes and his
lips. I wanted to touch him and go over his lips with my finger tips just
to feel their softness. They looked velvety and their shape was curvy and
they were not thin or full. They were just right. Blue eyes, big, sharp.
When he looked at you he could read you like a book; at least I felt that
way, when we had shaken hands for the first time. I avoided him for the
rest of the journey. France was easy. I just stayed at the back of the bus
and that was it. It wasn't that easy in London. I just did my best to duck
his look. No, he wasn't as happy then as he looked a few days ago.

He has just returned from Grand Canaries and he had a bit of a tan. It
wasn't the tan though that made him absolutely attractive. He hadn't shaved
and his dirty blond and silvery hair made him look younger and most of all
somehow happy. He was smiling when he saw me coming to our appointment. It
wasn't a date or anything like that. I had no illusion whatsoever about the
get-together being more than a mere echo of the London trip. That's why the
hand offering from my side, but to say hello he wanted to hug me. I was
panic stricken. What do I do? I am normally good at quick thinking but this
was terrible. I completely lost capability to think properly. He raised his
hand and I automatically took it in mine, turned him round and put my other
hand around his neck as in a sort of a fun wrestling move. We shook hands
afterwards and that was it. I was sorry the moment I did it. But those eyes
of his knew everything despite the fact I never let anyone near. Nobody
knows me for real and I decided nobody ever will. I don't hug and I don't
kiss on mouth. I don't let almost anybody touch me in anyway. If I had let
him hug me I would burst, explode in feelings and that would not be fair to
me or him, especially to him. Not in front of people who were Christmas
shopping and had a drink or two at the stands along the streets. Not even
if there was nobody in the street but us. I couldn't hug him. It was too
difficult to face the possible reaction on my side after the hug.

He had an orange jacket on the first time we met. He had it on the second
time to. I traveled with him a month ago. We went to London again and his
orange jacket led us through, by, and near the sights I know by heart as I
have been to London for the fifteenth time at least. Not with him though.
It's difficult for me to go with him, very difficult. Yet I wanted to be
him this time. He is good, he is the best in explaining, leading the
tourists and helping them in their tiny and less tiny predicaments. He was
the best one for the job. Everything was great and I managed to avoid him,
avoid being alone with him. I talked to him only if I needed to. Then in
National Gallery in front of a Van Dyke painting he made a comment about
the artists surname and I responded. I shouldn't have. I should have kept
my big mouth shut. It was just pun. I hoped he wouldn't notice and he
didn't show it till later on the steps to the gallery shop he said he was
gay and the pun was just pun. I was dumb stricken. Here was this man I
liked for many years and yet avoided him as much as possible telling me
something I could only dream of.

I do not hug. I do not hug men. I do not hug gay men because it's too
difficult. It's dangerous. Where I live this is impossible. I'd lose my job
in a heartbeat and probably I couldn't live where I live now anymore.

Thousand thoughts raced and collided and raced again through my mind as I
was following him down the wide staircase listening to his words about the
shop and the souvenirs. I wanted to shout from happiness, relief and sorrow
at the same time. Nobody has ever said to me he was gay, never.  I felt
less alone on the planet. All of a sudden there is someone I could talk to
openly and they wouldn't judge me or attack me or raise havoc about it. I
would love to hug him and thank him and talk to him and ask him all sorts
of questions. I really would if I had the courage. I had none. I choked for
a split second and continued as if nothing had been said. I checked some
paintbrushes and later chose a set of acrylic paints. I talked to others
from the group as they slowly found their way to the shop.

As we were talking and walking in the street in the old part of the town I
tried to steal some glances at his tanned happy face. He was different from
the first time but also different from last month at the gallery. He looked
great. No orange jacket, no smoothly shaven face and no people to take care
of behind him. His bright eyes were even brighter and the wrinkles around
them were not as visible. His long stubble would probably feel somewhere
between prickly and soft. He was in town for only a short time. He was
going to Mexico for a month or so. I wished him best time and lots of fun.
I didn't say it aloud though. We had lunch and talked. I shouldn't talk to
him. He makes my brain useless. I didn't think before blurting out words
and thoughts. Everything I said was not thought beforehand and it made no
sense to me. I listened to my brain but it was in slow motion. My brain is
never in slow motion. Even when I sleep I get ideas for my work, about how
to continue my paintings, what to do in the garden and a multitude of other
thoughts and plans to be realized later. He told me about his life, bits of
it. He spoke about his career and his private life. We think alike and he
has a similar issue I have. But the point is, he is open about everything
while I am not. I have only told him and nobody else. I couldn't and I
can't.

I have constructed this imaginary life of mine that my neighbours and
others see. I had two girlfriends that are now just good friends and that
was enough for prying eyes to believe I was as the rest of the lot. The
stories about me that eventually came back to me were far from the truth
and some were even horrible. But that was much more acceptable than for
people knowing the truth. Outing me would be devastating in many ways. This
way I live peacefully and nobody attacks me. There was a man who had made a
mistake and let others know about his preference. I was about eighteen at
that time. After some physical attacks and lots of insults he moved away in
less than a year. I can't do that. There are so many reasons why not. So I
live my secluded little life and most people think I am a bit superior and
difficult to talk to. That's just fine by me. Others feel that I am
friendly and nice and helpful which is not that good for me. I must keep
pushing people away and helping others must become more of an exception
than a rule.

Walking back to the garage house with him was something I could do forever.
He was nice and polite and honest and witty and everything I admire in a
person, any person really not just in him. Under the Christmas lights
everywhere around us I saw a reflection of us in a window. We couldn't have
looked more differently. We are both quite tall and only two years apart
but he is handsome and I am not, rather the opposite. He can be with anyone
he chooses and I live in a secluded little village and keep my secluded
insignificant life out of the way. We would be a complete mismatch even if
he considered being at least a friend with me. I felt the sadness I have
felt all my life being more present than ever. I am by far the most stupid
man there ever was. I shouldn't have met with him. We are worlds apart and
he is leaving to Mexico for a month or so. That's enough time to completely
forget me.

The entrance door separated as we shook hands. I remained a cold statue in
the glass elevator. I could see myself starring back from the mirror. I was
wearing a long pitch black cashmere coat and a grey scarf, how
appropriately dark and gloomy. If I hadn't turned round I'd cry. I paid for
parking, found my car and drove out of the building. It was done
automatically and without any thought. I only hoped I wouldn't see him
walking on the pavement by the street as I drove in the same direction as
he had told me he lived. The ice cold hand was holding my throat and I
could hardly breathe. Luckily I didn't see him. It wasn't till almost an
hour later I came to my house and sat in the dark. I had to cool down and
calm my racing thoughts. I couldn't find one single reason for him to like
me. Not one. Not even a tiny one.

Why am I so bothered by him? Why does it mean so much for him to like me?
This is not who I am. I don't get upset because I met someone, never. I am
independent, self-sufficient and I need nobody to make me whole. I really
don't, right? Right, but it would be nice to have a friend like that. Yes,
it would be nice.

After some time of reflecting upon my own stupidity I decided to have my
dinner and go to sleep. There was nothing to do. Just before I went to bed
my phone made a noise. It was an SMS and I almost fell on the floor when I
saw whose it was. He thanked me for the present I gave him. It was just a
mug that I liked and bought at the tea shop. But the point is, he didn't
know it was a mug. He actually liked the wrapping. He hadn't opened it at
all. That made me even more surprised. There were a few messages he sent
and I sent. I am sure he was just being polite when he wrote he appreciated
meeting someone who might become a good friend, but hope dies hard doesn't
it. It was easier messaging him than talking to him in person, yet after
reading some more of his words I was where I had been before – in a glass
elevator. I choked again and started writing brainless things. He must have
got it as his answers got shorter and I've probably bored him to death. I
don't normally write long nor frequent messages. So I stopped.

The next day I sent him a short message wishing him a nice holiday and a
safe trip to Mexico. He wished me the same and that was it. Today, three
days later I went out for a long walk. It was the first after three days of
putting things in my head back to their shelves and deciding what to do.
I'll do nothing. I cannot do a thing. I don't want to be some ugly bloke
whose behavior might start slightly resembling a mixture of a stalker and
somewhat of a bore. Maybe he'll send a short message or a postcard. He just
might. He won't, will he?