The Little Things

"I want to pamper you..."

P.C. Denissa Devy

Last Thursday Night

“I want to take you on a date,” Luís tells me.

I am back at the bar after quickly writing last week’s newsletter. We are sipping mezcal negronis side by side. The waves of Luís’s brown hair stick out beneath the sides of his cap. He has a cheeky but also slightly nervous look on his face.

“So, c-can I take you out?” he asks.

I rest my hand on my chin as I gaze into his eyes. Am I trying to be cute? Does he already think I am cute enough?

I say nothing. Instead, I lean in closer. I put my hand on his knee. I take a deep breath in. I kiss him somewhere on that tiny, sacred triangle between his neck, his cheek, and his ear. I like his faint scent of cologne and cigarettes. I realize our bodies are mirroring each other for the first time.

I pull back. I smile at him. Luís smiles back.

Last Saturday Night

I check my phone as I walk down the shadowed street. I have a text from Luís.

“What are you doing tonight?”

I am already on my way to the bar where I know he is. Our friends are reuniting. I am trying not to psyche myself out because Luís is asking me the right thing at the wrong time.

I join everyone in the tented seating area. People are spilling out onto the street. Some long-haired hipster repositions the next vinyl record playing indoors. Soon enough, Luís is sitting next to me. He is not wearing his hat. As I suspected, his hairline sits comfortably back at his ears. His hair frames his head like a crown. I have never been with a balding man before.

Luís is very drunk and smoking a lot, but I don’t care. The sea of our friends blurs into the background. Luís slowly tries to kiss me. I turn my face away, so he kisses me on the cheek. He grins in a giddy way. He glances at me over the rims of his glasses like he is up to no good. He bites his tongue between his teeth. Cheeky like a kid who’s been caught drinking those cans of Coca-Cola and is high on caffeine. Repeat, kisses and all. It is a game we are playing together.

“I owe you a date,” he says. I frown at him. His talk is cheap. He’s already mentioned invitations to far-flung corners of the city and to my favorite town, Tepotzlan. I worry that he’s one of those men who will love-bomb me with sweet talk and kissy heart emojis and then drop me the second I have sex with him.

“I want to go on a date with you too,” I tell him, “But I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Soon, Luís and I have gotten tacos, and we’re headed to my house. I remember a rule I made for myself:

A man can only stay over at my house once he has proven himself to be worthy, i.e., is my boyfriend. It fucks up my sleep schedule too much otherwise.

I sigh to myself. Luís lives far away. He can’t drive home now. I want him to stay over. What is the point of having rules if not to break them?

“No sex,” I say.

“Okay,” he agrees.

Later, when we are lying in my bed together, and I am examining the large bird tattoo across his chest, he says to me,

 “I’m a man of few words.”

I say nothing. Instead, I wonder to myself: what does it mean when a man of supposedly few words tells you he wants to take you on a date? There’s a gentleness in that. That’s got to mean something.  

When we get up to face the day the next morning, Luís helps me make the bed. I realize he is the first to do so out of the last five men in his place. I didn’t even have to ask. His small gestures, the little things he does, show me who he is.

He picks up our dirty water glasses and returns them to my kitchen. He then spends a decent amount of time in the bathroom. He likes to be clean, he said.

“Thank you for everything,” he tells me on his way out.

Thursday Night (Now)

I am lying with Luís on the couch. I am typing and writing this piece. We are listening to Radiohead together. I feel guilty writing about him while he is beside me. I am not being honest with him.

We are at his friend’s place because Luís is cat-sitting. What kind of a fucked up, nice person offers to look after their friend’s cat for an entire week? He must be a good person, or someone with a good character. Despicable.

I consider writing about all the men that have disappointed me, but now it feels like I would be wasting my breath on them. Instead, I want to write about the good men. The kind ones, the cute ones who identify unabashedly with their feminine energy. And this one, who is crazy enough to want to let an overly opinionated, domineering, anxious English woman into his life.

Luís has cooked me dinner. Chiles rellenos are waiting on the stove whenever I want them. He had texted me, unprompted, earlier in the week,

“I want to pamper you.”

Now he’s playing with my collarbone. The rolling drums and longing guitar of Radiohead transport us. Luís is stroking my arm. It forces the air out of my lungs. I draw circles on the back of his hand with my finger. I look at the lip of the bizarre creature of his black ink tattoo on his wrist. It’s peeking out from under the fresh grey hoodie he put on after returning from his band’s rehearsal. He likes to be clean, he said again. Then Luís says,

“I’m a shy person.”

Fuck. I think to myself. Here I am in the process of ruining this perfectly lovely man’s life. I’m spreading the secrets of my intimate life that he’s now a part of all over the internet. He doesn’t deserve this. When should I tell him?

💌