Lovestoned

            This is okay. This is okay. This is okay. It doesn’t mean anything, really. Totally not a big deal. Nothing to stress about. I mean, think about all the starving children. Think about the homeless. Think about abandoned puppies. Think about…Think about…Think about…

            Think about WHY HE DIDN’T KISS ME!

            It’s not his fault, I suppose. I mean, my expectations for this whole thing, this date were way too high anyway. I would have been better off, really, just watching Jon Stewart. Really, I would have. Because, seriously, I mean, he’s just some guy. Nothing important or special or different or mysterious or exotic or sweet or nice or handsome or charming or sexy about him. He’s not any of those things, anyway. Really. He’s just like all the other guys I’ve been with.

            Except I wasn’t ‘with’ him because HE DIDN’T KISS ME!

            As I sit collapsed on the stairwell, mascara snaking its way down my cheeks, I glance around, hoping that no one – and I mean, no one – has fallen prey to my Lifetime-movie-esque loser-tude. And that’s when I see it. A quarter. Right by the entrance door it lies, gleaming in all of its self-righteous glory. It’s a new one, 2008 plastered on its cocky coin-face. The bastard. Knowing all too well that my night’s circumstances could be totally and completely put upon this horrendous medal object, I approach it, undeniably eager to put it in its place. Picking it up, my mind scrolls through its ‘If-only-I-had-a-quarter’ scrapbook, desperate for some vengeance. I hold it up in the air, destination in sight, when…

            “Chica, chica!”

            Thrown off balance, the quarter sails behind me, soaring above and beyond, landing wherever with a very distinctive clunk.

            “Juan, you scared me!”

            “Lo siento, chica, lo siento. Porque triste?”

            Blubbering, I respond, “My date. No good.”

            “Porque?”

            “No se, Juan. No se. I don’t know. I’m too ugly, or too stupid, or too weird. I don’t know.”

            “Chica, chica, chica. No, no, no. Hermosa y flaca y elegante.”

            “I don’t know, Juan. I don’t know why I never get it right.”

            “Maybe it’s not you, chica.”

            “What do you mean, Juan?”

            “You’re good, chica. Pero, su chicos no son buenos.”

            I look at him, my eyes pleading for sweet relief.

            “Feel better, chica.”

            Walking up to my apartment, I look in the window and can’t help but laugh. I have chutney on my chin. And lipstick on my teeth. And the aforementioned mascara rainfall. And…and…the flower he put in my hair. Maybe Juan was right. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe my man choices are made wrongly. But, I don’t know, something about him, about Amar, just felt something unlike all the other ones.

            While I’m brushing my teeth – why those two minutes pass so slowly is an oddity – my eyes play a dirty trick on me. My answering machine is blinking. Red light on, red light off. Red light on, red light off. Could it be? Did he, did Amar, call me back? Once again, my pendulum swings – should I check my messages? I’m never been prone to superstitions, but something is telling me to hold back, think it through, wait. But, then again, how long am I going to have to wait?

            Oh, right. Maybe I’ll just have to wait until I see him in class tomorrow.

*          *          *          *          *

            “Miss Monet, your hair is very nice. Did you do something to it?” Amar asks as I plop – gracefully – in the lecture-hall seat next to him.

            “What? Oh, no. No. No. I mean, I woke up like this,” I lie. Damn – I knew the curls, plus the dress, plus the perfume were a wee bit too much.

            “Did you get my message, Miss Monet?”

            “Message? Did you leave me a message?”

            “Yes, I did. I just wanted to tell you what a nice time I have with you. It was nice, don’t you think, Miss Monet?”         

            “Yeah, it was…”

            “Miss Monet, look…”

            Just as he’s about to speak, some guy – some Indian guy – comes up to him, a weird look on his face.

            “Amar, man, how’s it going?” the weirdo asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

            “Good, good. How are you, Shaunveer?”

            “Very good, very good. I just got back today – went back home for the holiday.”

            “Oh really?” Amar asks, appearing somewhat flustered as I sit there awkwardly, wondering why he has yet to introduce me.

            “Yes, home. Did you forget about that place or something, man? You know, home.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Shaunveer.”

            “Right, of course you don’t,” the weirdo says, looking at Amar, then me, then back again.            “Good morning,” the professor says, prompting the weirdo to sit to the other side of Amar, thus – thank you very much, Weirdo – ending any hopes I had of resolving last night’s kiss-free farewell.

*          *          *          *          *

            Standing outside the lecture hall, I make a very, very, very, very drawn-out process of placing my things in my bag, hoping that doing so will allow enough time for Amar  and the weirdo to stop talking. Because, of course, I want him to talk to me. My plan, however, fails – I really should have known – and I walk away, wishing I could just go back to my apartment and sleep off this man-caused malaise.

            Walking down the campus promenade, obviously pondering the meaning of life and my place in it and why, oh why I can’t seem to ever get anything right, I mean especially with guys and all…

            “Miss Monet! Miss Monet!”

            Turning around, I see him, Amar, running to catch up with me, his books held firmly up to his chest.

            “Miss Monet, where did you go? I looked all around and I could not find you!”

            “Well, I left. You and that guy were talking and all and I…I just left.”

            “I am sorry about that guy. Don’t mind him. Will you forgive me, Miss Monet?” he asks, his eyes piercing through my solid resolve.

            “Forgive you?” I ask, my inquiry giving way to laughter. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

            “I am deeply sorry about last night, Miss Monet. I never meant to make you feel a certain way.”

            “A certain way?”

            “I never meant to make you think I didn’t like you.” He pauses. “I like you very much, Miss Monet.”

            Yet again, his blatant lack of cockiness/arrogance/jerk-ness/asshole-in-Rainbows-ness – traits so prominent in all my other male experiences – invokes my consequential smile.

            Realizing my momentary verbal incapacitation, he asks, “How about we go on another shopping trip, Miss Monet? I need some help decorating my apartment?”

            I just nod. Nod, nod, nod, nod, nod.

*          *          *          *          *

            I have to admit, his apartment does reek of caveman. Not in the sense that he smells bad or is crazy muscular – because he totally does not smell bad but I guess, I mean, he might be kind of muscular, but not that I’ve noticed or anything – but in the sense that it hasn’t really been lived in. As I help him put away the drinking glasses, plates, blankets, and rugs that we bought – correction, that we spent four glorious hours perusing the mall for – I can feel him looking at me.

            “What?” I giggly ask, cocking my head as I look at him.

            “Miss Monet, I must say, you really are exquisite.”

            “Exquisite?” I ask. “I don’t know if I’d say ‘exquisite.’”

            “No, you wouldn’t, but I would. You are, Miss Monet. I am really glad I have met you.”

            This time, I know. I know he’s going to kiss me. I lean in, oh-so looking forward to a kiss from Amar.

            Except, he doesn’t – he pulls away again.

            Embarrassed, furious, and hurt, I grab my purse and run to the door, praying to my eyes to please, please, hold the tears until I’m gone.

            “Miss Monet, wait!” he says, running towards the door.

            “What?”

            “Don’t go, please, don’t go.”

            “Why? So you can keep rejecting me over and over again? I don’t think so! You know, I thought you were different. I thought that maybe, I don’t know,” I stutter, cursing my eyes for their premature rainfall, “I thought maybe you would treat me right, treat me not like all the other guys treat me. You said you liked me.”

            “Miss Monet, please…”

            “No, good-bye.”

            But just as I reach for the doorknob, he, Amar, grabs my forearm.

            “Miss Monet, I do like you. I just…I just…I just…”

            “What?”

            And just like that, he kisses me. But he doesn’t just kiss me. With both hands on my face, he brings me close to him, enveloping me in his calm passion, telling me more with his proximity than his vocabulary.

            “I like you, Miss Monet,” he adds.

            And this time, I kiss him back.

*          *          *          *          *

            Does the sun always shine in the morning? As I lie next to him, to Amar, I feel like a morning glory, basking in all things wonderful. Ah, this is what it feels like. Love.

I remember when he told me. It was a month after we started dating. We were sitting in our shared lecture class, my white head leaning on his brown shoulder, when he passed me a note. Laughing, I picked it up, opened it and, just like that, ‘Miss Monet, I have to tell you something: I am in love with you.’ Trying not to show any emotion, I passed him back a note: ‘You really shouldn’t be passing notes in class. But, just for your information…I am in love with you, too.’ We left that lecture early, instead going to the beach for the rest of the day, lying in the sand, lying in each other’s arms.

That was four months ago. As I lie here next to him, in his bed, on this Sunday morning, I can’t help but stare at him. I do this every morning when we wake up. I don’t do it in a creepy way or anything, but I never fail to wonder at his constant mysteriousness. Even after five months, there is still something about him, something I’ve yet to figure out. Maybe it’s his resounding calm, his constant sense of peace and harmony. He is always level-headed, always cool and collected, yet he doesn’t flaunt it or brag about it or declare it on a $25-tee from Urban Outfitters. It is just inherently Amar. Even, right now, when he’s sleeping, he just lies there, limbs still and breath perfectly paced, unlike my sleeping routine – legs flailing, breath squeaking like a prepubescent boy.

Maybe it’s not so much his calm, but the calm he brings to me. Since we’ve started dating, I’ve learned to slow down, to go with the flow, to be a tad bit more rational.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been with a guy who treats me right, who likes me more for my brains than my body, who constantly shows me that he does indeed care. Maybe that’s why.

*          *          *          *          *         

There’s only a month until graduation, which, on this beer-pong campus means only one thing – parties. I’ve never been much for the whole party scene, but, since Amar has yet to experience a crazy-college college party, I feel obliged.

“Now, remember, don’t take cups from anyone you don’t know, and don’t inhale the air too much, oh, and don’t eat the chips out of the bag – too many hands,” I say, feeling somewhat protective of him.

Squeezing my hand in his, he just smiles. “Ok, Miss Monet. Whatever you say, dear.”

*          *          *          *          *

This party is lame. Right as we’re about to make our escape, Weirdo sees Amar, rushing up to us from across the room.

“Hey man,” he begins, stopping when his eyes catch our intertwined hands.

“Hi, Shaunveer. Nice to see you, but we have to leave,” Amar says, pulling me towards the door.

“Wait, man. What are you doing?” he asks, eyeing me condescendingly. “What about back home?”

“Um, nothing. Bye Shaunveer,” he replies pulling me out to the sidewalk.

“Babe,” I say, “what is going on?”

“Oh, nothing. I told you not to worry about him, remember, Miss Monet?”

“Yes, I remember. But obviously something’s up.”

He releases my hand, placing his on his forehead.

“Amar, please tell me what is going on. Why is that guy so rude to me? Why won’t you introduce him to me?”

He is still standing there, not looking at me, not even breathing.

“Amar?”

“Miss Monet, I…I…I should tell you something.”

“What?”

“Back home, in India, I…”

“Yes?”

“I have a fiancé.”