Nomad

About Last Night

It's 3am on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning. We are walking (stumbling) down Fordham road. There's an ambient aura that engulfs this section of my neighborhood in a dingy orange smog due to old dusty street lamps. An orange so eerie that secretly I enjoy the few sidewalk sections with brand new, crisp, clean looking light from new LED lamps that some stores are finally switching over to. Because of the late hour, the fear of being run up on by a rat that tries to test my gangster is real.

I took the girl I met earlier today (or yesterday rather) out to the club. Amber (I never bothered to learn her last name) is an interesting woman. That's a lie. I didn't bother to get to know her better, I just told her what she wanted to hear. Our conversations consisted of pure popular propaganda that society instills in todays generation. Generally I would stay away from people who are living their respective lives with the intention of staying current with the happenings in the social media craze. I'm not even sure of how to describe these sorts of people. The closest word in my vernacular to label these sorts of people, I'm just going out on a limb here, I would say is normal.

But what was it about Amber that intrigued me? Was her boring conversations about pop music? No. Was it the fact that she was keeping up with those Kardigans (or Kardashians, whatever)? Nope. Was it the fact that she worked a 9 to 5 in the city? Err. So what was it that made me make her my bitch? Was it her long, thick, juicy legs? Mmmmm, maybe. Was it the way she leaned in to listen to me with her tits just about 5 centimeters off the table? There we go. Or was it the way her eyes shimmered with lust in the dim light by the bar? Sounds about right. Could it have been her daddy issues that were evident in the way she moved, talked, acted and fucked? Bingo!

I'm deaf to body language. A woman could be flipping her hair, laughing at my corny jokes, touching my arm or leg as we talk, and I still won't get the message. I can't read body language. I speak English, also Spanish, and I dabble in sarcasm. If someone has hidden (or not so hidden) agendas, intentions, feelings, or they just feel some type of way, then people should speak up because I am hella slow sometimes.

Amber made it easy for me to read her every move. Maybe that's why I couldn't help myself at the club. Maybe that's why I couldn't keep my hands off those Dominican curves. Maybe that's why I pulled her closer to my body from the small of her back. Maybe that's why I stayed at that club in the heights till two in the morning. Maybe it was the way my beautiful lies and empty compliments had her feeling herself, and in turn had her feeling me. I have no idea, but I liked where this night was headed.

It's 3:17 am when we finally reach the front door to my apartment building. At this point, both Amber and I reek of alcohol, sweat, sin, and misguided trust. While searching my pockets for the keys to the crib, I glance over to where Amber was having trouble standing. She was smiling, the most genuine smile that would set the precedence for her night to come. It was a smile of hope. A smile of happiness. A smile that came with an anchored heart. It's very unfortunate, she's caught in my wicked game.

"What are you looking at?"

"Wait... huh?"

I forgot that I was still staring at her.

"I saaaaaid 'what are you looking at?' Tu si eres soldo loco."

"Oh! Oh, nah. Nothing. You are just so.."

I step closer to her, while I bring her closer by the wrist.

"...fucking..."

Now I have her where I want her.

Straight in front of my face.

My eyes gaze into the pools of brown where I can see her soul ache for a love that ain't hers.