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The Iraqi is Back (A Really Bad Blog)

November 30, 2015

Ok, here’s the truth. I was lonely. I was busy. I was active. I had lots to do. But I was also lonely. I wanted a man’s hands on me. I wanted to kiss someone. So, when the Iraqi texted “Hi,” for the tenth time. I responded. Actually I had responded before but he never said anything more. So, I switched to a different app that we used to use to text each other. “Are you going to just randomly text me and not say anything else?” I wrote.

He responded. He was glad to hear from me. He asked to see me. I knew it might be crazy to see him again. But I also remembered how much he liked me and how affectionate he was. So I told him we could meet later that week, “to catch up.”

When I walked into Pamplona to find a chair Friday night, Amy was entertaining a group of friends. She had been there since four and was quite animated. The Iraqi had been there with me before, but he didn’t remember where it was. I gave him the address several times and he still had a little trouble finding the place. But eventually we were sitting together at the bar, turned away from the lively discussion going on beside us.

I was having wine, but he had stopped drinking he said. It was the Friday of the Paris attacks. Amy mentioned it and a discussion about politics and history ensued. I forgot that he could be insightful. I forgot how cute he was and that we did have some chemistry. I forgot how pretty his dark curly hair was. We talked for hours, easily. He seemed changed. And he made it clear that he had learned his lesson and would not be as forward and assuming as before. He was more subdued. And I found myself wanting to kiss him.

Getting in his car for a ride home, I did just that and it was sweet and enticing. He came upstairs and we talked a while on my couch then he went home. I found myself thinking about him in the morning.

Saturday was the Diwali celebration that I’ve been invited to for three years now. The Iraqi wanted to meet me at the Moon after the event.  My favorite part about going to Diwali is the after-party dancing. Everyone gets on stage and goes nuts to Bollywood music. It’s really fun and I look forward to it every year. But this year was different. The group of people had changed too much. The old gang from a couple of years ago had all moved on. It was more permanent residents and families. So, when the Bollywood music started and everyone moved to the stage I wasn’t enticed. I wanted to see the Iraqi instead. I asked him to meet me at the Moon and he agreed.

I walked into the Moon and it was decorated for a wedding. Will, the ever present gatekeeper told me who had gotten married. “What am I going to do?” I asked him. “I’m meeting someone here.”

“Hang out. You know most of these people anyway.”  But I wasn’t going to crash a wedding I wasn’t invited to, so I sat on the front steps. When I snuck into the hostel for a bathroom break, the Iraqi arrived and unwittingly crashed the party himself. He texted to say he was there. I walked around the back to see a party full of people I indeed did know, but whose inner circle I was not privy to.

I was stopped on the porch by Roger, a somewhat older fixture of Lafayette with a deep, smooth voice that he utilizes well in his radio show on the local public station. “Hey,” he said, holding my arm gently. “All this time and you didn’t tell me your real name?”

“You know my name,” I said.

“But on facebook, you’re something else.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s a long story,” I said. “Well tell me all about it,” he said, holding my arm.

“I can’t, I gotta go find my friend.”

I walked up the steps to find the Iraqi standing at the edge of the dance floor. I went up to him, took him by the hand and led him away to the back porch. We sat on the “make-out” swing and I explained to him that it was a private party.

We stayed on the swing and talked and kissed. He told me weird stories and rubbed my legs as they dangled across his. I ran my fingers through his curly hair. He touched my face and told me I was beautiful. It was cold. I wasn’t dressed for the drop in temperature. We decided to relocate to my apartment. We walked to his car, his arm around me trying to keep me warm.

“It’s behind that truck,” he said. But when we got far enough to see behind the truck….no car. “Where’s my car?” he asked.

Given his appalling sense of direction I thought maybe he just wasn’t remembering the right street. He wondered if it was stolen. I wondered if it had been towed. We got closer to the spot he said he parked in and it was right in front of a flimsy little driveway, grass invading a surface that probably rarely felt a car rolling over it. “Yep. You parked in front of a driveway,” I said.

I helped him call the police to find out where his car had been towed and how he could get it back. I drove him home. Around 2am he texted, saying he had his car back.

 

This has got to be the most boring writing I’ve ever attempted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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