Zafir is tall, standing at 6’3. But when he wears his locks, his bleached locks, on the top of his head in a ponytail it makes him that much more noticeable. Combine that with his Mad Max (if Max fell out of a thrift shop) wardrobe, and you get the recipe for not just noticing him, but stopping to stare. Zafir is different, and embraces his home on the outskirts of society. That is why Mylea loves him. But he is the last, LAST, person she wants to see at this moment.
Mylea wanted to laugh at the irony, but she is too bitter. When she actually wants to see him he is always busy, or flakes, or just straight up won’t respond to her texts – so why tonight, of all nights, does he have to be here? But of course he would be here. He enjoys street performances as much as she does, and he was always out, galavanting around the city. It figures.
Mylea’s breath hesitates in her trachea for the briefest of moments. As if her own body, sans brain, is considering whether or not she should go on. She feels like someone has put her on a time-lapse. Everything is slow motion. Her steps feel heavier; her gut feels sick. Mylea considers crossing the street because she can’t bear the possibility of him seeing her. Because she knows if he sees her, his mouth will break into his big, toothy, dimpled smile and he’ll wave at her to come over. He will want her to stop and chat. He will ask her to come along on his adventures. Mylea will want to say no, but she knows she will not. She knows she won’t say no, because more than anything in the world she just wants to be with him… She will end up saying yes to hanging out with him, and they’ll have a great time. They will hop from club to club – dancing blindly, as occasional laser beams give them a colorful glimpse of each other. They will kiss and grab, not giving a damn about the strangers around them. The night will end with them in her bed, having amazing sex. Zafir will tell her that she’s the perfect girl, that he’s never met anyone like her, that he could see Mylea and him being together forever, having kids, the white-fence life. That she is his sun. And they will fall asleep, happy. And then they’ll wake up, still happy. And after an hour or so of sunrise conversation, he will eventually get up, find his glasses, put his clothes on, and give her a kiss goodbye. That kiss might almost end up in them having sex again, and then he will walk out the door. And Mylea will sigh, with a sad smile on her face, because she will know there is no predicting when she will see him again. She will float through the rest of her day in a haze, still high off Zafir. She might text him, something random. And when he doesn’t respond she’ll start to get angry. Angry at him, first. Then angry at herself. Eventually, she will run out of anger, and just become the girl that goes out at night and smokes a cigarette.
Mylea knows that this is what will happen if Zafir sees her, because this is what always happens. This is their routine.
So, you see the danger of the predicament she is in.
Mylea walks to forget, or at least disguise, the pain she feels about being in love with someone who isn’t capable of loving her. And now, here she is going to cross paths with him. She is still considering rerouting. It would be the safest option. However, Mylea knows if she walks quickly enough, she can avoid his eyes. He will be too distracted by the performers to notice anything else. But still…what if he does recognize her? She doesn’t want to admit it to herself, but part of her wants him to. It would be a break from the pain. It would give her hope. Hope that maybe Zafir does love her. Maybe if he sees her, it will make him remember her. Make him remember them. Maybe…
Mylea doesn’t cross the street. She chooses Hope. As she moves forward she doesn’t take her eyes off him for a second. She wants to know the moment he sees her. Even as she steps closer. Step. by step. by step. Part of her still wants him not to see her… He doesn’t deserve to see her anymore. To think about her. no. He doesn’t get to talk to her anymore… Mylea revels in this acidity. She keeps her eyes on him intently, everyone and everything else in the background fades. 30 feet. 26 feet. 20 feet away.. There are only a few seconds left for him to take his eyes away from the bucket drummers to look around and, by chance, glimpse Mylea racing past. She takes one more deep breath before pushing through the crowd quickly, tucking her chin to her chest. Her hood loyally hides her hair and face. Exhale. She turns the corner without looking back, but her ears? They drag a little. Mylea listens. Straining. Praying? That maybe she will hear her name called.
All she hears are the staccato taps of drumsticks on white plastic buckets.
22 and Counting 