Three months ago, one of my closest male friends named Good Guy asked me for help. He was holding an art exhibit somewhere in the city and he wanted someone to make sure his guests were well-fed. So I gave him the group who catered my cousin’s wedding and took care of the reservation until the opening night. He was very happy he included my name in his thank you list.
I remembered arriving in his showroom with a couple of our close friends. When I spotted him talking to a bunch of guys (one of them was cute), I headed straight to the bathroom to freshen up. My hair was a mess. I didn’t want Good Guy and company to see me like I had just stepped out of an ancient wardrobe.
From the rest room, I went straight to the buffet table and had my noodles and tea there in such a feel-at-home fashion. I could even take a nap on the couch without me worrying about what Good Guy would say. I was there the entire night forgetting my manners and the reason why all of us were all there. It was his night as a celebrated artist and that reality didn’t sink quite well in my empty skull.
Finally, he managed to break away from a group of all-black costumed emos and joined us shaking our hands. His firm grip brought to surface certain things about him that so intrigued me since Day One. Like he couldn’t look straight into my eyes. But when he would, he’d shift his gaze to the nearest wall, picture or a plant. I’d like to think that he just couldn’t believe I could wear a decent piece of dress that night.
By the way, that was the first time we shook hands after so many years. I thought we really should do it more often.
