I don’t remember crying as a teenager. I don’t remember a time when teardrops streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t cry at graduation or even when I left home for college. The sadness was indeed felt, as was the moisture in my eyes, but I produced nada.
Then I met Kurt. I fell in lust with Kurt and was convinced he was it. This bad boy on campus didn’t want anything serious with me. I was a virgin – an innocent little, skinny girl lacking in the ass and boobs department. At least, that’s what he’ d say. But I was still convinced he was it. So I wrote him a letter. Pen to paper, I scribbled down my feelings frantically and repeatedly. The words in cursive revealed I wanted him to be my first, and with that realization I sobbed.
For two weeks, I couldn’t stop crying. All my repressed emotions and vulnerability gushed out of every pore. And then I began to drink and sob, drink and dial, drink because I was sobbing. I was at a loss. I was exasperated. I was a mess.
That’s exactly how I felt after coming home from Mr. G’s birthday party. Like a mess, like an idealistic, overly romantic fool who believed she could move mountains by following her heart. So I lay my head on my pillow and shut my eyes tight. My tears fell down my eyes and wet my pillow. I was drifting. Trying to get a handle of my emotions and Bacardi induced jumo. I would forget about Mr. G por la bueno o por la mala, I said to myself. And right then, my cell phone rang.
I opened my eyes in the darkness and focused on finding my cell. My bedroom walls spun and I felt the ceiling would collapse at any given moment. Finally, I saw the glimmer underneath my blanket.
“Hello,” I said somberly.
“You left and you didn’t say goodbye,” said the raspy voice on the other line. I lifted my head to peek at the clock. I squinted. It read 4:30am.
“I didn’t feel comfortable,” I said, plopping my head back down again.
“I know it was awkward but your leaving like that…it was abrupt. I was worried,” Mr. G responded sincerely. I paused, unsure of how to proceed. The earlier consumed Bacardi pushed me to expose my fears and romantic desires while my pride yanked me in the direction of indifference.
“Tell me what happened,” he said softly. My eyes began to water and I felt myself slipping. I felt myself falling for a man who, at the moment, could not be mine.
“What do you feel for me?” I blurted. The Bacardi won. “I feel myself caring more and more about you and I don’t want to get hurt. I need you to tell me what this means to you…” I finished, still holding back tears.
“Sujeiry, I care about you. I’m attracted to you in more than just the physical sense. I love spending time with you and how intelligent you are and that you challenge me. The situation is complicated but I promise I haven’t lied to you,” Mr. G persisted. Silent filled the air as I absorbed his words and tone of voice. I did believe him. In my heart and gut, I knew Mr. G was telling the truth, and I told him so.
The conversation was then over. I put away my cell phone, shut my eyes once again and let another tear slip by. That was the last of it. That was the last of my sobbing. I would hold on to my faith. I would hold on to the power of visualization. I would hold on with the hope that Mr. G would produce more than nada.