OLA

Quite some time ago, I made out with this flirty little human from Poland. I was too drunk to be too damn charming; I kept asking what she did back in Germany and she’d say, “Poland, Germany, Europe, whatever,” too drunk herself or too cool to care. Well, I was too drunk to be charming exactly, but I didn’t miss my moment:

We were talking about LA—we both hate it—

I’ve heard it said, pearl-of-wisdom, that we all forge deep bonds more quickly over the things the we hate than the things that we love; and Los Angeles has made me a lot of friends for a place I’ve never been to as an adult.

We were talking about LA when she told me that “No one ever said what they meant and I never knew what people wanted from me.” Her shoulders pinched up as she said it, like even thinking about it now made her want to become invisible.

I told her that I agreed and that people should try to say what they feel.

“Well, I suppose you know I am very attracted to you,” I added, walking the walk, putting my money where my mouth is.

“What?” she said. I repeated myself. “Why?”

“Why? Well, you’re very beautiful,” I said—

I learned that line in a book. Seriously. Robert Jordan in For Whom the Bell Tolls spits that one when his moment comes along. But Robert delivers it in his elevated diction—“Thou seemest very beautiful”—and he doesn’t know when to stop. He tacks “and more” on the end, so that the compliment reads, “Thou seemest very beautiful, and more.” That’s a killer line, but it leaves his audience wanting to know what more, and Robert lets them down with whatever forgettable thing he says next. Robert Jordan, a strategy-maker in a fucked guerilla war, should be more careful to think things through.

“Thank you,” said the flirt.

“And I like your voice,” I said. “And you make me laugh. And I think you’re great company.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

I blushed. My skin is dark and doesn’t much glow red with emotion, but beneath the surface, all of my engines of vasodilation were firing up and outwardly, my heart on my sleeve, I believe that I took on a blushing air.

She said, “Would it be alright if I kissed you?” I can only imagine that the pain of watching me squirm had become unbearable to her kind soul. Also, I looked pretty good.

“Please,” I said, and not sarcastically either. I was prepared to plead.

As sweet as this all was, it turned out to be one of those kisses: grand enthusiasm and little style; just a face-full of happy face. I didn’t know her last name (or how to spell her first one) and we were not in love, just ready to be fooled for it. Fools for love. First kisses are like that. Firsts are like that.

She was a real weirdo and I am glad that I got to kiss her for a while and that I got to see the way she smiled when I told her why I liked her—I’m not going to describe it or even try to get you close. I remember she said she had two days left before her visa expired and she was on a plane back to Germany, Poland, Europe or whatever. I think she was sad. But she said, “Why would I want to stay in a country that calls me an alien?” and I could tell she had said it a million times to all of her friends, who would probably really miss her. We laughed about it. I guess I don’t know if she ever ended up going home.