Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (23 page)

Who cares about all this shit anyway
? I thought.
It is done
.

But I cared, even as I shelved the idea of our paths intertwining
ever again under a lock whose key I chose to lose.

There are times in my life when I hop aboard the philosophy
train
and wonder about logical things normal folk seem to know of instinctively.
For example, what kind of cheese is the moon made of? Is Stephen Hawking an alien?
Where in the world
is
Carmen Sandiego? How exactly does Beyonce get her weave
so shiny? And more often than not, why-oh-why do women marry guys they knew in high
school? I mean, what the fuck is that all about?
Are there no other men on
a planet with 7 billion inhabitants? Do they not yearn for different
penises
experiences? Someone explain.

I stay up nights and do my research but still I find no answers, so
I wait for the universe to slap me with lessons that shed light on my endless curiosities
once it sees fit. This chapter is about the clues that led me to the conclusion
that, of course, the aforementioned ladies are geniuses, and I’m just a silly girl
who knows nothing about anything.

(Except about Beyonce’s weave; I know all about that and I’m not telling
you.)

The year was 2012 and we were on summer vacation in Boston.
One night, Britt met a hottie named Tony before our last day at an afterhours bar.
Tony was wearing a Christmas sweater and a little hoop earring on his right earlobe,
signs that should’ve screamed
Total psycho!
but Britt found endearing. Sometime around five in the morning, a group of us went
back to the hotel to continue the debauchery in our room or lobby or wherever they
allowed noise and the unlimited flowage of vodka tonics.

I also happened to have met someone
that night –hi, Jason – who offered to be our ride back to the hotel. Not exactly
thrilled about taking Britt and some strange dude in his car, Jason finally agreed
after some coaxing on my part, also known as purring-in-his-ear-and-empty-promises-of-great-things-to-come.
When we finally crammed ourselves in his Dodge, seven of us were on the way to continue
the
fiesta
. Upon arriving to the Hilton, Britt simply told Tony that it was
“great to meet him” and kissed him on the cheek. She then proceeded to get out of
the car, leaving us all with our mouths agape as we wondered,
What the fuck are
we supposed to do with this fool now?
After Jason dropped Tony off at a friend’s
house and returned to us, the virtual stalking commenced. Now, before you read the
following, it is crucial to note the following:

A) Britt had literally
just
met Tony two hours before.

B) We have no idea what “hhh” means but have deduced it’s “Ha ha ha” or “lol” or “Reply or I will find
you.”

C) You have to read this in a middle eastern accent because Tony is from Israel and his English not
so good.

D) Britt is really glad she didn’t disclose her name on “the Facebook.”

And “huf,” Tony, this is
exactly
why women marry their
high school sweethearts or become lesbians.

(Unless they really have a thing for accents.)

(Or Christmas sweaters.)

(Or little hoop earrings from the 90s.)

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Let the hunt continue. Hhh.

Not long ago, my best friend became obsessed with a little
piece of literature
most people have come to know as,
The Alchemist
.
Every day, I would receive a peppering of quotes from the book via text or email
with enthusiastic side notes from Britt, explaining just how awesome and prophetic
the whole thing was. Each positive and emphatic reference was followed with her
urging me to buy the book. I felt embarrassed that I never took the time to pick
it up, so I engaged my friend in her whimsical delusions that life is this journey
in which dreams become reality, true love will find you if you let it, and everything
else will just fall into place because being alive is a grand journey that’ll surely
lead you to your rightful destiny.

A week after she finished the book, we went out for drinks. We hadn’t
gotten our first round of libations when she began to enlighten me with a barrage
of details about the grandiose plot. I bobbed my head up and down as she told me
that the main characters were perfect for each other, but their love could not be
fulfilled at the beginning because the male role had to chase his “personal legend.”
She declared the last words with the boldness and wonder of someone opening a box
holding the cure to cancer. I rolled my eyes dramatically and urged the waiter to
keep the martinis coming at all costs.

“This really pertains to you, Annah,” she continued, “as you are actively
seeking and working on your personal legend, which is this book you’ve been writing
for, like, almost a decade. That said, love isn’t in the cards for you yet, because
there are personal legends that need taking care of.”

I nodded mockingly in agreement and whispered, “Please tell me more.”

“The personal legend is the only way to achieve perfection. If you
ignore that calling, you will live a life of regret and sadness,” Britt glanced
at me for the reaction that never came. “It is what makes a human life worth living,”
she went on, “and Santiago had to seek his personal legend before settling down
with Fatima in the desert, even though he really wanted to marry her from the start.”

“Who’s Santiago?” I asked, beginning to question her sanity.

“Santiago,” she sighed in exasperation, “is the main character of
the book. He falls in love with this beautiful girl who lived in the desert and
her name is Fatima. He realizes he wants to be with her right away, but Fatima asks
him to go on so he can seek his personal legend. She is not selfish like most women,
because she knows that if he doesn’t pursue his dream, he will be unfulfilled and
unable to be the husband she wants for eternity. She tells him that she will wait
for him, and she does,” her eyes turned to glowing moons. “God, it is
so
romantic.”

I wondered if Santiago and Fatima would’ve made it in an age where
you can stalk your lover’s every move online, or hire a private detective to see
if he’s up to any funny business without you, but kept this thought to myself. “And
Fatima?”

“What about her?” Britt looked at me as if I just inquired where babies
came from.

“What’s her personal legend?”

My friend was caught off guard with this question and bit her lower
lip. “What do you mean?”

“If we all have to seek our dreams in order to become whole and transcend
to this new level of enlightenment,” I snapped, “then surely Fatima had a dream
she had to follow too, no?”

“Of course she had a dream!” Brittany beamed after a moment. “Her
dream was to fall in love and be with a man worthy of her beauty. That man was Santiago
and
obviously
, because she loves him so much, she is destined to be the greater
person and wait while her man goes after his personal legend.”

I suppressed my irritation and patted her hand lovingly across the
table. “Oh, sweet face, it doesn’t make her greater that she waited for him to chase
some dream of finding treasure in the desert without a map. Women are always waiting
for men. Waiting for them to call. Waiting for them to realize how stupid they are.
Waiting for them to grow up. Waiting for them to find their ‘personal legend,’”
I sighed. “And I guess in one respect you’re absolutely right, all men
do
have a personal legend. It’s called the personal pussy legend, because they’re either
chasing pussy, or being one.”

Britt stayed quiet for a second, then looked at me as if I’d just
tasered a pregnant lady. She sipped her drink in silent introspection then changed
the subject to the Miami Heat. Following that night, we didn’t speak for nearly
two weeks. I spent a lot of time mulling over our last conversation during the time
we stopped talking. Sensing I’d been a bit harsh on her, I couldn’t help but wonder
if my personal legend was to be a bubble burster to silly women everywhere. If I
turned it over more than needed, I reckoned that sucked. Yet in the grand scheme
of things, it sure beat waiting in the desert for some idiot seeking imaginary treasures
while I took care of myself with a dildo made of stone.

Britt and I officially made up a few weeks later when we reunited
for a trip to Houston she’d convinced me to go to, after months of incessant begging.
Her favorite band was playing at a music festival there and, of course, she felt
it was my duty to play tour guide. Looking back on everything that had taken place,
Houston was the last city in the world I wanted to vacation in. It was safe to say
a perpetual cloud of cynicism loomed largely over my head since my last trip there,
and the idea of romance was something better left for Disney movies and romantic
comedies starring Jennifer Aniston. I started to think about the boundless obsession
women have with happy endings, and how we’ve somehow become hamsters wearing horse
blinders on a wheel that could only stop when we find “the one.” In all fairness,
I was certain men were also enthralled by the idea of happy endings themselves,
only theirs were performed in questionable Asian parlors by women who were remarkably
good with their hands and worked for tips.

On a June morning, we arrived to Houston for the festival with thirsty
livers and an appetite for trouble. Against our better judgment, we had all gone
out the night before. I was a crumbling heap of exhaustion as we finally walked
through the gates that Saturday and braved the Texan sun. It was still Africa hot
around 6, as I finally found a grassy spot to lie on. My friends had gone on a beer
hunt and I’d been left to my own devices when the sandman came for me, my long dress
acting as a blanket and cowboy hat as a face shield from the sun’s last rays.

In spite of the perfect weather and music enveloping me, my thoughts
were on the infinite quest for true love as I lay there motionless and surrounded
by thousands. I blamed it fully on Britt and
The Alchemist
and all that nonsense
talk about destinies and personal legends. I was flooded with the memory of Jonah
and all my other failed attempts at something everlasting, wondering if and when
I’d ever have a happy ending to call my own. I guessed it was inevitable to feel
that way. I guessed I always did every time I returned to Texas, or Spain, or any
other place on earth we’d roamed together. I began to dwell on endings, and how,
for better or for worse, I was in the dark when it came to mine. I presumed closing
chapters and beginning new ones was always harder than it seemed. I presumed letting
go of the things we loved the most was the hardest part of being alive.

I began to think about the day I met him, how the cold air had descended
on my shivering body that unsuspecting night that would change everything. Of how
scared I’d been the afternoon of the bull fights as he held me to safety in arms
that made my world stop. I thought of our first stolen kiss, and the passion I’d
tried to clone over and over with lips that would never measure to his. I thought
of Vegas, two doves taking flight and my heart soaring with them as we held hands
on that concrete bench the afternoon it became clear we would never be together.
How he’d fought for my honor that night at the country club, only to forget about
it hours later when we made love behind curtains that contained a story doomed from
the start. Mostly, though, I thought of how every instance I made a conscious decision
to escape him, he eventually reappeared, as if somehow his existence was part of
a greater design I was yet to figure out.

And then it hit me.

Sometimes, we seek to find our personal legend. Other times, it finds
us.

I was startled from my daydream when a party goer shook my legs lightly
in an effort to wake me. Bending them toward me so as to allow them to pass, the
rest of my body remained still. Once again the person moved me, this time with gentle
but persistent force. I removed my hat and realized the night had come, stars suspended
brightly above me on a dark sky full of promise and wonder. I shifted my eyes upward
and there he stood, all blue eyes and tanned skin as my name left his lips. I rubbed
my face slowly and half smiled, attempting to remove Jonah’s mirage from the crevices
of my altered imagination. At that moment, it became evident I needed to drink less
and sleep more; the previous day’s activities conjuring ghosts from a past I no
longer cared to recall. I got up and resolved to find my friends as a sweet melody
filled the air, only to find Jonah still standing there taking me in with inquiring
eyes that spoke volumes.

I moved closer in the dusk until the space between us turned to nothing,
placing a hand on his face to confirm the veracity of his existence. Dazed, I pinched
myself repeatedly to waking, yet nothing changed as I realized a mirage would never
instill such truths, nor could an illusion of the heart ever replicate the feeling
he evoked time and time again.

“What are you doing in this place?” I caressed his face with both
hands in the twilight.

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled, “Someone said you’d be here.”

There are times when you just know a moment belongs to you and try
as they might, no force could ever stop the unraveling of what’s already been laid
out. It is at junctures such as these where you ignore your doubts, and instead
ride the wave until you’re able to view the world from its highest crest. Certainly,
the possibility exists that it may crash and kill you, but that would only consist
as further proof that you actually lived. I wasn’t sure of anything as we stood
there facing each other in the uncertain dark, a body of moving life surrounding
our existence as we levitated in frozen time. I wasn’t sure of anything except,
he was real, just as he had always been to me, and just as likely and without question,
as he would forever remain.