It Wasn’t Love On My Mind
It wasn’t love on my mind as I slid onto the backseat of my Grab driver’s motorbike headed to the Tipsy Elephant—so why was my heart racing?
I only wanted to see him again, him and that adorably stupid frat-boy grin of his. To hear his voice with its tobacco-baked raspiness and sounding so entirely British. Northern British, from Newcastle—he had clarified this morning when he had deigned to sit beside me at work, the first time in the nearly six months that we’ve worked together. And he had talked to me. Really talked with me. My toes had curled, and my pupils must have dilated into saucers. Maybe that’s why he had grinned at me then. I swear, just above the scruff of his jaw I had spotted the faintest blushing of his cheeks. It wasn’t love, mind you, it wasn't. Just…anticipation. Tonight didn’t need to be serious. It could be simple. Drinks and music. Conversation. And later, perhaps, it could be a bit of sweet tangling in bedsheets. Asterisk on perhaps; I couldn’t be so bold as to bet money on it.
Though, daring as I was, I did hope so.
As the driver and I crossed over the bridge connecting Thao Dien to Binh Thanh, the oranges, purples, and creams of sunset draped soft shadows across the city's lines. Smog and exhaust clung to the air, thick and suffocating as ever—I’d long since grown accustomed to the coughing. A familiar ruckus was this evening's choice tune: blaring shouts and screaming horns. The chaos was at once mesmerizing and exhilarating.
We rounded the corner and the sun’s colors faded, the Tipsy Elephant flashed into view.
I said, “Cảm ơn!” to my driver. The scrunching of his brow made clear my botched pronunciation, though I hoped he understood my sentiment. Biting my lip, I ran my hands along my arms and stole a calming breath. I wasn’t a school child but at that moment my brain must have forgotten that. Years have passed since I last stepped out into the dating scene. Back in the States, alone and me, we were best buddies, we were pals. I liked being alone; there’s less pain that way. But alone doesn’t travel well. Not with me. So, there I was, taking a chance, rolling the dice. I hoped that as I got to know him—and him me; I know I’m not the easiest to like—he might really be nice.
I stepped into a buzzing bar. Locals glowered over the rims of their beers at the expats fussing around like mosquitoes. I felt as out of place as I was likely unwanted.
Unnerved, I turned to leave, thinking I’d wait for him outside.
Someone called me then: Martha, from work.
I stood, stunned and confused, as she waved to me and kicked out a stool, gesturing for me to plant myself beside her.
“Girl! What are you doing here?” I said. My face must have worn the daftest of expressions for she cackled and quaked the table with her fist, much to the whole bar’s agitated bemusement.
The three empty glasses before her clued me in—she was plastered.
“We’re chill, Martha. We’re chill.” I rubbed her back in a counterclockwise motion, habit guiding me more than genuine concern.
“I’m so nervous, Kyle. I spent half the afternoon curling my hair. You think he’ll say something?”
“Your hair is bouncing and beautiful, Martha. It always is.”
She sighed, tossing a few spirals over her shoulder. “I know. I just like to hear it.”
The server came and I ordered mineral waters for the two of us, hoping Martha wouldn’t notice the lack of alcohol through the lime and fizz.
“So…delighted as ever to see you, but what are you doing here? Who you’re waiting for? Cause I’m sort of waiting for someone, too. And I’m feeling very confused right now.”
Doe eyes stared back at me.
Our drinks arrived. I slurped a sip.
“Absolutely not! No, no, n-n-n-n-no. We’re not doing that. Not where I can hear, it’s like you’re literally slurping my brains out.”
“Oh. Your three margaritas haven’t atrophied that yet?” I bit my lip, recognizing my words to be harsher than intended.
Luckily, her mind seemed elsewhere, her eyes on the door.
I ran a nervous hand through my hair then snapped back it into my lap, worried that I’d look greasy when he arrived. Something about being with Martha brought out these frantic anxieties in me about my appearance. With a breath to compose myself, I tried again.
“Martha, darling, take a sip, calm down, and focus. Who are you meeting?”
“Samuel,” she said, tonguing her straw. “He and Harry are supposed to head over after they finish up with whatever new game boys are playing these days.”
My jaw clenched, a cold annoyance suffusing me.
“Harry’s coming with Samuel? Like, coming here? Together?”
“Yeah. That’s kinda how double dates work.” Martha began chomping on ice.
“Ah. Mhm. Of course.”
My eyes couldn’t roll back far enough. Harry hadn’t mentioned this was intended to be a double date—or perhaps he had, and I had just been too transfixed on his puppy-dog eyes, as alluring as they were grey. Either way, I suppose the situation could have been worse. If I had to choose anyone to be on a double date with, it would absolutely have been Martha. Quirky as she was, she knew how to keep the pot stirring.
— — —
I was a glass of prosecco and a shot of tequila down, courtesy of Martha’s bewitching tongue, when the boys arrived. They strolled in together, carrying themselves like frat-boys three years their juniors, stumbling as though they, themselves, were each a few beers gone.
They plopped into their seats.
(He sat across from me!)
I was so chill the whole time.
“Hey, boys! Just in time to get the next round. What’re we all drinking?” As expected, Martha kept the conversation spinning all night. More than once, I thought she must be plucking questions from my own mind.
“So, Mr. London Boy,” she said, sipping her umpteenth margarita “How come it took you so long to ask my fine friend out?”
Harry shifted on his stool, took a swig of his whiskey. “I don’t know. This whole thing is still kinda new to me. I didn’t have the greatest people in my life… Back in Newcastle. Not London.”
He took another swig.
The gleam in his eyes I had come to adore dwindled then. Hoping to keep it alive, I pivoted, blurting out, “Newcastle is where Chelsea’s from?”
“Excuse me?”
“The soccer—er, football team. Chelsea. They’re from Newcastle?”
“You’re joking, right? Chelsea? From Newcastle? No, mate. No.”
The gleam returned. And his grin, as adorably stupid as I remembered.
Conversation stretched through the night, winding from football and video games to a not-so-quick interjection about women’s rights and pay discrepancies—courtesy of Martha, of course. A warmth of gratitude swelled in me for having rolled the dice and tried my hand at this night. So seldomly I took my eyes off Harry, I thought I might accidentally weld a piece of me onto him. He reciprocated.
The moon shone, a crown amongst sparse stars, when he invited me outside with him, a menthol calling his name. He offered me one. I refused. We stood looking at each other. His eyes swept across me. Seeing me.
It wasn’t love on my mind, it wasn’t. But that moment was exactly what I needed. Us… Together under smoke and stars. And I think he needed me, too. I think some part of me needed him to.
“I still can’t believe it,” he said, a silver wisp streaming past his lips. “I’ve wasted six months pretending I didn’t notice you. Pretending I wasn't...curious about you. And for what? Fear? Shame? Embarrassment…”
“You weren't ready,” I said, leaning against his shoulder. “I understand that. Sometimes it’s hard to accept that we are who we are. You’ve lived in the shadows of your own life for so long; I don’t blame you. But you’ve notice me now…like I’ve noticed you.”
Our eyes locked, held briefly, then he turned away. He was still so used to hiding when things got real. So, I let him hide. I saw his markings, though. His bruises. It was such an eerie thing, how his looked so much like mine.
I wrapped my arms around him, held him not too tight. And we shared that moment. It was nice. Really nice.
Then came Martha—stumbling, grumbling, moment-ruining Martha—her timing ever impeccable.
“I’m so over this dump. Look what their lack of air conditioning did to my hair! I look like a tumbleweed.”
Samuel ran a hand through the black puffball atop Martha’s head, his fingers catching on a few tangles. “I think it’s hot. And I’d love for you to take a tumble in my weeds.”
Laughs all around, as fake as I’ve ever heard.
“Samuel’s taking me back to his place cause he’s such a sweet gentleman.” Martha slumped against Samuel’s chest. They both went teetering backward.
When I saw them mounting Samuel’s motorbike I shouted, “Hey! There’s no way you're safe to drive.”
“Kyle. Dude. Chill. I live right up the road; I do this all the time. We’ll be fine.”
They took off in a cloud of dust, carving a line that was anything but straight. Martha waved as they rounded the corner, the shadows sculpting her into a scarecrow. I shook my head.
“I was actually thinking I might head home myself.” Harry’s words broke me. “Maybe, uh… I don’t know.”
“What?” The word fell out of me, more a plea than I intended.
“I was going to offer you a ride…”
I let out a sigh and bit my tongue. Today had been one of chances and I’d been lucky so far. I mulled over the risk. But numbers and probabilities have never been my strong suit, so instead I asked, “Are you sure you’re good to drive? A Grab is literally a dollar-fifty.”
“I mean… I want you to be comfortable. I don’t know, like… Do you trust me? I wouldn’t hurt you.” A crushed innocence echoed in the crackling depths of his voice.
My stomach knotted, and I knew then that I would have done anything just to have him smile at me again.
“I know you wouldn’t.”
And he looked at me, his face alight like the north star. My north star.
I sat behind him, my body pressing into his. The smell of him was more intoxicating than any glass of wine, or bottle of whiskey.
“You mind?” He asked, a cigarette already wedged between his lips.
“Of course not.”
I did.
We went.
The night welcomed us as we set out chasing the stars. He never asked me where I lived. In truth, I never expected him to. Seeing how he commanded that two-wheel deathtrap, hearing the revving of his engine—which I think he hoped I’d find impressive, despite it sounding like a wounded banshee—I found myself wholly captivated by him, cursing that frat-boy charm of his.
With the closing of my eyes, I gave myself to him. And the world transformed around us. The wind on my skin became his hands caressing my cheeks. The musky air became scented candles burning in a dark room. The rough bumping of the road and the growing headlights blinding me became a sea of white sheets.
So loud…the horn screaming in these plush white shee—
…
The world was gone. But I was there when it returned.
There were no sheets, just blood. So much blood.
It wasn’t love on my mind when I realized I didn’t know where I was.
It wasn’t love on my mind when I looked at his face. I couldn’t recognize his body.
It wasn’t love I felt. But numb. And cold. Which didn’t make sense…
His blood was so warm.