heaven's drop, interrupted.
there she was, approaching me. sara mareirros on stage was still doing the soundcheck, and while she finished talking with her friends (prolly just acquintances) she spotted me, sitting on the staircase behind the long chairs. she smiled. gosh, that smile is truly adorable. she's adorable enough when she's frowning—the thing i never see her doing—and that smile made my heart skip a beat. she got up from the chair and approached me. i was thrilled. she looked more beautiful than ever. white tank top, pink bra, and a long, almost see-through flower-pattern blue skirt. and a pair of pink flip flops. i smiled back.
"hey, how's it goin'?"
"good, good," i said, swallowing my saliva. "how 'bout you?"
"yeah? great," and she smiled again.
i couldn't remember her name, though.
"i'll be right back," she said and got up from where we sat.
she's in the dance class. she's a very good dancer, really talented. no matter what kind of dance we do; be it swing, salsa or what not, she can do the lead even in her position as the follower. you see, in any of those dances we learned, one partner has to be the leader while the other's to be the follower—usually the guy takes the lead so he's the one in control of all the moving. but she could do the opposite—leading the guy doing their 'lead' moves while she's pretending to be the follower.
every time i dance with her i thought i was a professional.
once we were in this salsa club called cafe merengue, and i missed a couple of classes before that. but she approached me (leaning on the wall alone) anyway and asked me to dance with her.
"i forgot how to do the moves."
"what are you talking about? you're a good dancer, come on!" she snapped me happily and the next thing i know i was dragged into the center of the dance floor, and dancing like crazy—she's leading me, of course—and some of our friends appraised us for the dance we were doing. it couldn't get any better than that.
sara's voice was awesome; plus she sings in portuguese—making the music even more sexier. the rhythm guitar was tantalizing as always. i couldn't understand people who think that jazz and brazilian tunes are too sappy. or old. i mean, isn't that's where the beauty is? my appreciation towards the genre grows stronger and stronger every day— i now even like john pizzarelli. (okay, now i understand what was it that made my mother amazed when i listened to robbie williams singing well, did you evah? with jon lovitz on his record.) no wonder people always think i'm older than my real age.
"i haven't had my lunch. do you want some?" she suddenly came back and sat beside me with a big slice of veggie pizza in her mouth.
what is it with canadian and veggie pizza anyway?
"no thanks, i'm alright." i replied while still admiring her look. her white skin was getting tan from the prolonged exposure of the summer sun. i myself was oh-so-dark below the elbow (except for that annoying thick line from the watch on my right wrist), the face (except for the under-the-glasses skin) and the back neck. she of course, being a regular white that she is, looks like the beached-barbie doll-on-bikini with all the sunburn and her mesmerizing long dark-brown hair (not exactly blonde barbie, then, but i like dark colors better so she fits perfectly). even while eating that greasy pizza frantically, she was electrifying.
until she finished her pizza, licking her fingers and, prolly feeling too hot (in a literal sense), spread her arms up to her hair and tied it all up. and i could see that thing. that thing.
that bushy, scarily long and thick dark brown forests under her armpits.
it couldn't get any worse than that.
mully, honey, if you're reading this, i'm glad i still have you, my love.
[finished written 07:47 pm, July 5, 2004, at Starbucks International Terminal of Vancouver International Airport]