Three Hours Later

Tom was a journalist. I met him at a friend's party, where strangers from a friend of a friend all gathered in one room and crazy conversations. It was one of those nights where I thought it would be a short and quiet, but it turned out the opposite. I sat next to him by chance, the rest of the room was full and the only convenient place to sit was next to him on that blanket-covered sofa. He had this scruffy look, not quite a rebel but just about enough to get my attention.

Maybe, I deliberately chose to sit next to him, after all.

In the beginning, I thought the reason why he started talking to me because he had to. I was the closest person around him while others were engaged with their own crazy conversations. I was his only option, and he was my only option. As if our seating arrangement was just convenient for us to talk. He asked where did I come from, and I asked his. It turned out to be a geography games we played, until he figured out I was not from the northern part of the world, and he was born at the hospital just around the corner.

A moment later, there was a thin paper with five lines of white powder passed around the room. I politely declined, while he snorted half of the line, then looking back at me. He carried on. As the conversation prolonged, I had not seen such a sparks in someone eyes in a long time as if they were talking about the constellations. I did not get to say much but admiring him in nods and yeses. His passion in his writings and alcohol were the shooting stars I admired to see.

He told me history about rum, and there was a vodka made out of milk. He then asked me what's my three favourite drinks. I feel he was about to test me, he could tell someone's personality through their favourite drinks. I answered carefully: Chardonnay and Desperados. "Oh, so you like something that slightly sweet," he said, squinting his eyes, probably trying to remember how the white wine or tequila-mixed beer tasted like. He did mention his. It was Whisky.

"I have to write a lot about this, so I know a lot of stuff about the history and everything about it, really."

We then somehow started to talk about the hills by the sea side an hour drive from this town. He said he took his friends from South America once and they loved it. The later the night got, he told me he would like to take me there, too. He said I would love it, with the a resounding tone of certainty as if he had known me for years. I nodded, excited with his hypothetical thoughts as much as I knew it would not happen, I could feel my cheek redden.

I liked the way he told his stories. There was genuine passion present upon his eyes, burning bright like what Jack Kerouac said in his book, like a yellow Roman candles.

We finally caught an intermission pause where none of us were not talking just staring at the space. He seemed rather tired, and because we sat quite close, he then leaned forward as I responded accordingly, and rested his head on my neck. I could feel his thin beard stroke against my skin and that was when I wished nobody else was in the room because I'd bury myself in his kisses. Almost like a receptor sensors, I adjusted myself back to straight position. He woke up and for a second our face were less than three inches apart.

I immediately looked away at the rest of the people in the room chatting their stories away over a lighted spliff. Tom and I were somehow distant from them, as if we were a small island next to the mainland. I could still feel his eyes were on me like silent plea to come closer. I wanted to, but I held myself back. I could not look at his eyes either, because I know I'd be smiling and could not keep my eyes still, that soon would shift to his lips.

I chuckled in between the comfortable silence. As if it was contagious, he could not help to grin and touched my arms, "What's so funny?"
I shook my head lightly, "It's just," hesitated to be frank, "I barely met you less than three hours, but I've wanted to kiss you badly."
I could see his eyes gleaming with mutual feelings, and said, "Well, imagine what could happen three hours later," He leaned forward, almost like waiting for me at the other end to join his invitation.
But I just smiled.

There was something funny about instant attraction. I never believed in it, in myself, nor in anyone else. That this, should have not happened. That there was something wrong about it. The only attraction to trust was the one that happened through process. That happen gradually. Although at the same time, I underestimated the way this universe works. That I limited the possibility that honestly exceed this vast blue sky. I did not give the universe a break and see what could happen, see that maybe, instant attraction could have been the best thing that could ever happened.

But still. The sun was creeping in through the curtain, bringing the night to an end. And that was my cue to leave, letting the attraction dissolve into thin air.