Keeping my Hands Off.

November, December… August. 10 months. It’s been a long time the Boy and I have been together. I called him yesterday (and it’s a big deal to me, because I don’t call him very often) to reiterate a perfectly peculiar dream I remembered upon waking up. I can’t recall much, only that I had woken up remembering him holding my hand throughout the night as we spooned on plastic sun-chairs. In the dream, he had looked like Albert Speer in that Nuremberg movie, which made it all rather bizarre, since the actor that played him happens to be my dad’s age.

I felt as if my arm had been broken off and a part of me had been ripped, from me, the whole morning. And while thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that nothing ever really made sense.

After I had felt, for once, in a long time, that I had indeed connected with someone on Sunday, it was difficult waking up to the reality that there was in fact No-one, here, now.

I get so frustrated sometimes, thinking about the handful of months I have to wait before we would go on that holiday promised to ourselves. Sometimes it seems intensely absurd, not to mention retarded; Something like that can never work. But so far it has, so why should I give a shit? After all, I live for the next five minutes always and all the time.

We talked for a long while about things that didn’t really matter; Spain, US Politics, His new job in London. Well, the last bit matters, I’m excited for him, because he’s excited about it. Then he made mention of a bunch of his friends coming down to Singapore on an internship program from the University; it was the same program he came down with last year.

He was perfectly rude about it and told me to keep my hands off them if I met any at the pub from which he’d picked me up. He said some of them were really good-looking, and honestly, he didn’t mind if I was sleeping with someone else, only that it’d be terribly upsetting if he ever suspected that I was screwing with a freshman he knew.

‘Hello? How slutty do you think I am? I would never do that, it would desecrate the novelty of our relationship if I decided to maintain romances with every since batch of interns that come down every year. Man, that was a mean thing to say.’

But arguing is such annoyance, and I can truthfully swear that it was something I avoided adroitly with absolutely every person I have dated , so we promptly dropped the subject for the mundane one of how he was to find an apartment in downtown London.

The café had started to get rather noisy by then (I had called him from Starbucks after an exhausting hour of trying to understand The Harvard Business Review), the rain had stopped and the place was starting to pile up once again. The grind of the coffee machine was starting to become too much to bear, and the brutal chatter of a fat Australian girl talking down an unassuming Asian boy (who seemed to be totally besotted and had been consistently buying her an ever increasing number of muffins throughout the afternoon) was starting to disgust me. We cold barely hear each other anymore, so we said the obligatory I love yous and hung up.

Ten minutes later as I was walking to the supermarket for some figs, he called back.

‘Hey, I didn’t mean to insult you when I mentioned that you should keep your hands off the new interns. I really love you and I’ve never felt possessive before. Don’t know how to explain it but I could ever bear the thought of you… I mean, I can’t imagine… '

I attempted to stutter in something but gave up.

'Good luck for your examinations tomorrow, I hope my advice helped' He said.

I wasn’t even done with bye before the line was cut off. Perfect timing for a Low-Batt warning. Or maybe it wasn't the lousy T68.

xoxox