Image by Olga Pomoz from Pixabay

Jasmine

Everyone said,
When she invited me to her House,
That she wanted to fuck me,
But I knew she’s not like that,
Or maybe she is,
But not with me,
Never with me.

Someone like me could never be
With someone like her,
But I still stupidly bought condoms,
Some random type,
The white ones that kill the sperm
Or something like that
(Aren’t they all the same?).
The last time I had to buy some of those
I was younger and thinner and smaller
And had a girlfriend who loved me.

It was raining, of course,
Like in every Fincher movie.
I didn’t have an umbrella,
So someone from the Opus Dei gave me one,
A very religious guy
Who would die if he had known
I was planning to get laid
With a girl I had only seen through a screen.

And I’m not that kind of guy,
I swear.
I’m not your usual Latin American douche,
Who thinks that every girl that talks to him
Only wants to suck his dick.
But sometimes you trust the wrong guys
And let yourself go,
And start thinking like them
And end up wearing jeans and boots,
Because no one gets laid in joggers and sneakers.

So I get there,
Without nicotine in my veins,
Because I didn’t want to smoke before the…
Before whatever would happen happened.
And I’m positive there’s one word,
One fucking word, just one,
What would make me worthy of a kiss
Or something more,
But I don’t know that word,
And I think I’m better off not knowing it.

She hadn’t told me what floor she lived in,
So I’m waiting there,
And it’s poring now,
And my college stuff is getting wet,
Little droplets stab my papers and smear my ink.

And I’m starting to get a little anxious,
I haven’t seen a naked woman in a year and a half.
And she finally talks to me through the intercom,
And her voice is as sweet as I figured it would be,
And she remotely opens the door,
And I walk up the stairs,
And there’s this man that comes out of nowhere,
A security guy who looks like Steve Buscemi.
And by his looks
And my looks
I’m sure he thought I’m a delinquent,
But I shrug it off and keep going upstairs.

I’m in the second floor now
And it’s so humble it breaks my heart.
And there’s music coming from somewhere,
Snobby French music,
And I know it’s her who’s listening to it.
And I’m a bit lost,
Because I’m stupid and my heart is not pumping the right way,
So she has to open the door to meet me halfway,
Standing there,
Gigantic,
Deformed,
Awkward,
But I know she doesn’t care,
I know she sees through me,
Past me,
Like poets do.

The first thing I notice,
Of course,
Is that she’s not wearing a bra,
And the 15 year old in me wants to scream and shout.
And we’re supposed to study,
But she’s having some boring lunch,
Something I know well,
A vegetarian stupidity,
Because of course she’s a vegetarian,
Like I was before I stopped caring.

We don’t study right away,
We talk instead,
About nothing and everything,
About her tattoos, that I respect
Because they’re not meaningless
(She lets me touch one of them,
So I do,
And she has hair growing there,
But it doesn’t gross me out like it should),
About the boy she likes,
A boy that could be me
If I grew out a moustache
And read more poetry
But isn’t,
Because it’s never me.
And that’s when I realize
We won’t fuck,
And I’m relieved in a way
And weirdly glad,
Because I’m losing a one night stand
But I’m gaining a friend,
A good one.

We’re not similar,
We’re not alike,
But she opened her heart to me
And I made her laugh.
Maybe we like some of the same authors
(Borges, Buzzati),
But I don’t love poetry like she does,
And I think La La Land is better than Moonlight,
And Cortázar is not so great in my opinion,
But she doesn’t seem to care
And me neither,
Because there’s something more powerful uniting us,
Something I can’t quite put my finger on,
But something I’m sure exists,
Even if it shouldn’t.

* * *

As I walk the steps I had walked
I started wondering how long it will take
For her to abhor me like all the rest
And abandon me forever,
But then the rain stopped,
And as the sun appeared once again
I saw a blue butterfly setting on a white jasmine,
And that’s when I knew for sure,
Like one knows things in dreams,
That she and I will be fine,
Even if nothing happens
And we never see each other again.




Felipe Rodolfo Hendriksen studies Literature at Pontificia Universidad Católica Argentina. He currently lives in Quilmes.

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