Dating : positively shameless

Downstairs, 11 a.m. He was already pissed because I took too long and because life got to him too soon. I threatened with leaving if he doesn’t cool off, but even that bravado came with too much sentiment, and I couldn’t risk being caught red-handed with giving a fuck. He would have destroyed me. So I took a step forward and did what a girl does best. Gently touched his elbow before crossing the street, as if he was my only compass in this world, as if I was blind, as if he could stop any car that came towards me. Now I had him soft. Told him I was thirsty. He went inside a gas station to get water. Stay here, you don’t have a mask, it’s a pandemic, take care of my bike. OK, I said and watched him go with his bony shoulders, angry and manipulative eyes, long, messy hair looking like all kinds of Jesus, t-shirt filled with holes as if he slept with termites in a fuckin’ log, positively shameless. A woman inside a car saw him and began blessing herself, tracing the sign of the holy cross on her body as if she saw the devil. That moment I knew that if he wasn’t going to kiss me that day, I will never drink water again, I will let my mouth turn back into the same sand God made us from and I will simply stop existing because I failed to be alive. But he did kiss me. Firmly, but wet, almost never-ending until I pushed him, looked him in the eyes and then spat his saliva on the ground.