Stars are something, aren't they? I promise you this isn't one of those NOVA specials. Some of you may stop reading here.
I probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but stars can really change the entire mood of a place. I remember the way they made that vast, sandy terrain I once found my feet sifting through so inspiring. I recalled that the inspiration hit me just a couple hours after my feet left the hot sand, whilst on a cross-country coach bus in South America, as I witnessed the sun setting behind the dunes streaked with fresh, criss-crossing sand-boarding routes. The routes were like little channels that would disappear with the wind and then reappear somewhere entirely different, as if they were secret enchanted passages to an ancient treasure. This memory really made the romantic element of the "starry"sky over New Jersey's suburbia, which I now found myself under, seem rather pathetic.
Nevertheless, I stood there. The world darkened around us. Or, at least as dark as it can possibly get in this place. The lights up above started popping and twinkling just as they had in my memories. They glimmered back at me, the stars, almost as if they were winking at me saying, "We got your back tiger. She's all yours."
"Damn, thats a lot of stars," I said, far more crudely than I had intended, knowing full well that there weren't that many stars out all.
Ana looked up, "Yeah, you're right. Some night."
I guess we were still arm in arm. I hadn't noticed till just then. We just stood there, in the empty parking spot next to her car. If it weren't for the fact that both our heads were tilted up towards the unimpressive New Jersey night sky, you could say I was stalling. Some would argue that I was stalling regardless of the angles of our heads.
You would think that the moment had passed. What, with the awkwardness and all. But the silence was pretty loud in itself. Silence is a pretty relative word. We were, after all, in the parking lot of a New Jersey mall. The state's pride and joy. The malls, not the parking lots, that is. Cars were driving in and out. Restaurants were still pretty busy, and the commercial hunger of suburban families had yet to be satisfied. Compared to that desert and its starry friends, this place was in a state of pandemonium. Yet, despite all the clamor, our body movements, which had replaced words, were still so very audible.
I can't remember who moved, or rather shuffled, first, but my arm found its way around her waist. It's difficult to determine when the mind stops working, and instincts and feelings take over. I pulled her in close to me. One doesn't really think in these situations. It's nearly a state of black out. If you're conscious of what you're doing in these situations, you could argue that you're doing it wrong. "It" referring to something I can't really articulate, but you get the idea.
I retract the earlier statement where I claimed that I was pulling her in, close to me. Strike it from the record please. Pulling isn't the right word; it implies that some force was applied. In this case, you could almost say that it was her body that was guiding my arm. At least that's what I would like to believe. Or, maybe both bodies were guiding each other. Anyways, whatever.
As this interplay between bodies was going on, the bustle from the dinner parties at the nearby Chinese, or rather Chinese-American, restaurant had died down. The restaurant, whose name evades me now, started cleanup procedure.
Her adorable, perfectly up-turned nose nuzzled up under my neck.
"Uh, oh,"I thought, "there's my cue to become less of a man". I let out an obviously restrained giggle under my breath. My neck was super sensitive. At any given moment, if it was touched, or caressed in this case, in a certain fashion I would be transformed into a small school girl. It was the perfect mix of pleasure and pain. She snuck in a little snigger of her own to acknowledge my effeminate outburst.
This was it. That tickle and that high pitched giggle that followed my own huskier one. That was the cue. This was my moment. Or, more unoriginally put, our moment. It was no longer just me who was holding on to her; she was holding on to me. But she clung on not with just her arms. Her head rested on my shoulder, with her breath and soft lips making each and every hair on my neck stand at attention. It was as if her entire body had been instructed that its sole purpose was to bind me to her, ever so tightly.
Everything about her was perfect at that point. Very foolish to say, I know, but I think this is the part where my brain stops working. So you'll just have to humor me here.
I could always wait for her. I would change for nobody but her because she would always get her way with me. Like I said before, bear with me here. At that point I could hear her loud and clear, even when she was saying nothing at all.
I'll stop now. Anyways, moving on.
Making that move, it's an art. Everyone has their fair share of success, and more than their fair share of failure. I'm no pick-up artist (and no, I haven't read the book), but I'd like to think I'm not complete rubbish at the whole process. Yes, I would consider it a process. I would say it's similar to the process of firing a gun. As dark and as terrible of a comparison that may be, there is some truth to it. For one, once you fire a gun, there's no un-firing it. Once that move is made, you are totally committed. The consequences are yours, and solely yours. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Firstly, you need a target. Check. Ana. If she had been a literal target, it would be physically impossible to miss her at the distance she was from me, which was basically zero as she embraced me snuggly. Secondly, you need to take aim. Aiming, in some cases, is something that takes time. I suppose for me it had been done tonight and for the past six months. If you don't put in the proper time and effort, you're going to miss. The same can be said for firing a gun; you need to have a calm heart and sound mind, and have your finger on that trigger, ready to fire at the exact perfect moment. This was the "check" I wasn't exactly a hundred percent certain of. There I was in that parking lot with Ana in my arms, in my sights. I think my finger was on the trigger too. All that was needed was a slight nudge. The tiniest of signals, and that was it. This was the last check mark. You have to pull that trigger.
In me, the clocks were stopped. The stars were watching, waiting. But time was passing around me. Even in that South American desert from my memories the sun was still setting over the Andes. The luscious green valleys, just south of that dry and seemingly endless expanse, filled with vineyards, were still falling into a lulling and peaceful darkness. Sun light was still just kissing the icy tips of the mountains; the shadows were encroaching, but you would still just be able to catch a last glimpse of those lofty giants. The last drops of mountain water, melted by the retreating rays, would still be running down those slopes, into those splendid little valleys. And, finally the caballos would still be able to get their last sip of cold, fresh water for the night.
As time passed over my world, she looked up to me. That tender look was expecting something. Expecting, but not asking. She could never be a bother. And I saw her quiet smile, elegant and wild. She had been on my mind, and there was nothing better. I decided to look back down at her to catch her eyes. It was all part of the plan. And then, just like your average Keira Knightley-esque, Victorian-era-themed movie from the 2000s, Ana averted her eyes timidly. Her shy, smiling gaze betrayed just a hint of vulnerability. She looked down now. Waiting for me to push her chin back up.
I knew my face shone with a thin layer of sweat. It was summer after all. Yet, the skin on her forehead seemed to defy the laws of nature. It seemed serene. Just like those verde valleys that from a distance seemed almost still and perfect in time. This is how I knew it was the sweat from my cheek that made our faces stick together, as my cheek made the two inch voyage to hers. My short bristles (I thought not shaving would make me seem more burly) microscopically caressed her milky skin.
Actually, scratch that. I don't understand why some women like a bit of a shadow on their men. I have felt it against my hand, and its not exactly a comfortable feeling. Those little hairs are deceivingly sharp. I can imagine they are quite annoying, like a soft sheet of sandpaper against bare skin, especially on skin as soft as hers.
She clutched me like a purse. My shoulder nudged her chin up, her lips now looking up at mine and our eyes kissing. Our foreheads amorously conjoined. Nothing else was needed, aside from the obvious.
"Pull. The. Trigger." Every part of my body was screaming it at me.
No more nudges. There was nothing left to be nudged. It would be like beating the proverbial dead horse. Turning The Moment into the awkward moment.
This was it. I moved in closer. My sweaty finger on that cold, unyielding trigger. Bound to slip, but too determined to do so.
It happened. It was so obviously fated to happen. Stupid to believe anything else would have happened. The target was there, the aiming had been done, and the finger was on that bloody metaphorical trigger. But the sweat was also in attendance, not to mention the heartbeat slamming against a rapidly undulating rib cage. Everyone and everything looked on with such great anticipation. The show of the century. You would be a fool to miss it.
And then the slip. A mistake, if you will. The extra nudge. The kiss on the cheek. Confusion. Followed by the kiss on the forehead. A domino effect. The fallen eyes. Two disappointed faces.
A missed mark. A bad shot. A trigger left unpulled.
I probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but stars can really change the entire mood of a place. I remember the way they made that vast, sandy terrain I once found my feet sifting through so inspiring. I recalled that the inspiration hit me just a couple hours after my feet left the hot sand, whilst on a cross-country coach bus in South America, as I witnessed the sun setting behind the dunes streaked with fresh, criss-crossing sand-boarding routes. The routes were like little channels that would disappear with the wind and then reappear somewhere entirely different, as if they were secret enchanted passages to an ancient treasure. This memory really made the romantic element of the "starry"sky over New Jersey's suburbia, which I now found myself under, seem rather pathetic.
Nevertheless, I stood there. The world darkened around us. Or, at least as dark as it can possibly get in this place. The lights up above started popping and twinkling just as they had in my memories. They glimmered back at me, the stars, almost as if they were winking at me saying, "We got your back tiger. She's all yours."
"Damn, thats a lot of stars," I said, far more crudely than I had intended, knowing full well that there weren't that many stars out all.
Ana looked up, "Yeah, you're right. Some night."
I guess we were still arm in arm. I hadn't noticed till just then. We just stood there, in the empty parking spot next to her car. If it weren't for the fact that both our heads were tilted up towards the unimpressive New Jersey night sky, you could say I was stalling. Some would argue that I was stalling regardless of the angles of our heads.
You would think that the moment had passed. What, with the awkwardness and all. But the silence was pretty loud in itself. Silence is a pretty relative word. We were, after all, in the parking lot of a New Jersey mall. The state's pride and joy. The malls, not the parking lots, that is. Cars were driving in and out. Restaurants were still pretty busy, and the commercial hunger of suburban families had yet to be satisfied. Compared to that desert and its starry friends, this place was in a state of pandemonium. Yet, despite all the clamor, our body movements, which had replaced words, were still so very audible.
I can't remember who moved, or rather shuffled, first, but my arm found its way around her waist. It's difficult to determine when the mind stops working, and instincts and feelings take over. I pulled her in close to me. One doesn't really think in these situations. It's nearly a state of black out. If you're conscious of what you're doing in these situations, you could argue that you're doing it wrong. "It" referring to something I can't really articulate, but you get the idea.
I retract the earlier statement where I claimed that I was pulling her in, close to me. Strike it from the record please. Pulling isn't the right word; it implies that some force was applied. In this case, you could almost say that it was her body that was guiding my arm. At least that's what I would like to believe. Or, maybe both bodies were guiding each other. Anyways, whatever.
As this interplay between bodies was going on, the bustle from the dinner parties at the nearby Chinese, or rather Chinese-American, restaurant had died down. The restaurant, whose name evades me now, started cleanup procedure.
Her adorable, perfectly up-turned nose nuzzled up under my neck.
"Uh, oh,"I thought, "there's my cue to become less of a man". I let out an obviously restrained giggle under my breath. My neck was super sensitive. At any given moment, if it was touched, or caressed in this case, in a certain fashion I would be transformed into a small school girl. It was the perfect mix of pleasure and pain. She snuck in a little snigger of her own to acknowledge my effeminate outburst.
This was it. That tickle and that high pitched giggle that followed my own huskier one. That was the cue. This was my moment. Or, more unoriginally put, our moment. It was no longer just me who was holding on to her; she was holding on to me. But she clung on not with just her arms. Her head rested on my shoulder, with her breath and soft lips making each and every hair on my neck stand at attention. It was as if her entire body had been instructed that its sole purpose was to bind me to her, ever so tightly.
Everything about her was perfect at that point. Very foolish to say, I know, but I think this is the part where my brain stops working. So you'll just have to humor me here.
I could always wait for her. I would change for nobody but her because she would always get her way with me. Like I said before, bear with me here. At that point I could hear her loud and clear, even when she was saying nothing at all.
I'll stop now. Anyways, moving on.
Making that move, it's an art. Everyone has their fair share of success, and more than their fair share of failure. I'm no pick-up artist (and no, I haven't read the book), but I'd like to think I'm not complete rubbish at the whole process. Yes, I would consider it a process. I would say it's similar to the process of firing a gun. As dark and as terrible of a comparison that may be, there is some truth to it. For one, once you fire a gun, there's no un-firing it. Once that move is made, you are totally committed. The consequences are yours, and solely yours. But I am getting ahead of myself.
As time passed over my world, she looked up to me. That tender look was expecting something. Expecting, but not asking. She could never be a bother. And I saw her quiet smile, elegant and wild. She had been on my mind, and there was nothing better. I decided to look back down at her to catch her eyes. It was all part of the plan. And then, just like your average Keira Knightley-esque, Victorian-era-themed movie from the 2000s, Ana averted her eyes timidly. Her shy, smiling gaze betrayed just a hint of vulnerability. She looked down now. Waiting for me to push her chin back up.
I knew my face shone with a thin layer of sweat. It was summer after all. Yet, the skin on her forehead seemed to defy the laws of nature. It seemed serene. Just like those verde valleys that from a distance seemed almost still and perfect in time. This is how I knew it was the sweat from my cheek that made our faces stick together, as my cheek made the two inch voyage to hers. My short bristles (I thought not shaving would make me seem more burly) microscopically caressed her milky skin.
Actually, scratch that. I don't understand why some women like a bit of a shadow on their men. I have felt it against my hand, and its not exactly a comfortable feeling. Those little hairs are deceivingly sharp. I can imagine they are quite annoying, like a soft sheet of sandpaper against bare skin, especially on skin as soft as hers.
She clutched me like a purse. My shoulder nudged her chin up, her lips now looking up at mine and our eyes kissing. Our foreheads amorously conjoined. Nothing else was needed, aside from the obvious.
"Pull. The. Trigger." Every part of my body was screaming it at me.
No more nudges. There was nothing left to be nudged. It would be like beating the proverbial dead horse. Turning The Moment into the awkward moment.
This was it. I moved in closer. My sweaty finger on that cold, unyielding trigger. Bound to slip, but too determined to do so.
It happened. It was so obviously fated to happen. Stupid to believe anything else would have happened. The target was there, the aiming had been done, and the finger was on that bloody metaphorical trigger. But the sweat was also in attendance, not to mention the heartbeat slamming against a rapidly undulating rib cage. Everyone and everything looked on with such great anticipation. The show of the century. You would be a fool to miss it.
And then the slip. A mistake, if you will. The extra nudge. The kiss on the cheek. Confusion. Followed by the kiss on the forehead. A domino effect. The fallen eyes. Two disappointed faces.
A missed mark. A bad shot. A trigger left unpulled.
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