a graveyard of dead words

There's a new man in my life, and the closest thing I've had to a boyfriend since my ex Omar, two years ago. Yes, I'm that girl. Whenever I tell my closest friends that I have a boyfriend, they flip. It has always been this way. None of my friends can picture me married or with kids.

Two Fridays ago. The Rain Lounge in Brooklyn.
I went with my friend Kristine b/c she wanted me to meet her "crush," this guy named Ray. Ray brought a friend. All I noticed about him was his swagger and the sexy way he danced with women. Smiled a lot too. I didn't know his name. I danced all night with some guy who danced with me like he was trying to possess my body. It was ridiculous. And then got puppy-dog hurt when I didn't give him my phone number afterwards. Whatever happened to just dancing and letting it be?

But I'm digressing towards the unimportant. It was when the club was over and we were all standing outside like forlorn children wondering what to do next; it was when we got into Ray's car and started driving toward's Kristine's place; it was when this nameless friend turned around and introduced himself as Rene, and smiled at me, shook my hand. It was when I took a ferocious bite of his pizza. That was when I knew the night turned in on itself, that we stumbled into the backdoor of something that neither of us were expecting: each other.

Kristine's house: Kristine and Ray, feather kissing in the corner. Cutsey cutsey kisses that sound like rice krispies in milk. And Rene and I on Kristine's bed, swallowing each other whole. We forgot where we were. I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't believe how well we clicked, our bodies. And we were already moving so much faster than Ray and Kristine, who knew each other for at least a couple of weeks. The contrast between the two couples was hilarious.

And that was the beginning. So I guess I'll describe him. His smile is a furnace. His eyes are the only kind of pools that I wouldn't mind drowning in. I look and fall into them, head first. The craters in his face (he suffers from acne) endear me to him in a way that imperfection usually doesn't. His nails are hideous because he has a disease called siriasis (sp). He's an electrical engineer; fixes refrigerators and elevators.

I described it to him last week, "I think we like each other, but our bodies are in love each other." He touched my nose with his finger. This flowering thing between us has a fun intensity to it. Sounds like an oxymoron, but that's exactly it.

The thing is, he's the kind of guy that I hardly ever date. He's not an artist/thinker/intellectual of any kind. I always date those kinds of guys. I love being intellectually stimulated, almost as much as I love being intellectually stimulating. But, he dances in a way that affects me and he speaks Spanish like a prince. Without knowing it, he teaches me what it is to be truly selfless. He has an unmistakable sincerity that makes him so beautiful to me.

Last night, he saw me on stage for the first time. Astonished. Like I said, he's not a poetry head, but I brought him into my environment, my world. I held the doors open for him and walked through with that smile I'm growing to crave so much.

The East Village: after my show, we went to a Thai Resteraunt. His first time eating Thai food. We were the only ones in this empty resteraunt in the middle of everything. He placed his Dominican machismo delicately aside and let me order for the both of us. We ate from the same plates, the most romantic thing I've done in a long time. Grilled chicken and Pad-See-You. I taught him how to use chopsticks. We held hands, fantasized, kissed. We spoke in Spanish. I haven't spoken Spanish in so long. My tongue felt like a graveyard of dead words. He makes me want to relearn everything about that gorgeous language that I've forgotten.

Last night was divine: a true date. So this is what it's like. After dinner, we took the train to Brooklyn. We kissed underground like we would never see sky again. We got into a borrowed car and went to Black Betty's in Williamsburg, where they were playing some tripped out Indian music. It was like the DanceHall Reggae of the East. We lounged together, shared a Long Island Iced Tea, entwined our bodies best we could, talked, laughed, admired eachother's faces, kissed some more. He dropped me off in the City around 3:30am, then headed back to Bushwick. I called him as soon as I got snuggled into bed...guess I didn't want the night to be over. I kept him company the rest of the way home, on the phone.

Rene and I are going somewhere, yes. We haven't said this to each other, but I think we've said it to ourselves: I want to commit to this person. I don't want anybody else (yes, Brad Pitt is single now, I know!). When it comes to the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, do words make it official, or is the connection enough?

My biggest and only concern is that I will lose interest simply because he's not the kind of guy that I'm used to dating. But, that would end up making me very narrow and shallow, wouldn't it? When talking to my friend Rog about this, he said that he's dated women like that before, but in the long run he couldn't deal because they just didn't "get" him. That's an interesting question: to what extent do our lovers have to 'get' us? And while we're focusing on all the ways they're not 'getting' us, what if they're 'getting' us in ways that we don't even realize?

Two days ago, I felt that Rene would never get me, and then there was last night. Something about last night has left me less concerned with this. I mean, when it boils down to it, who cares? When I'm with him, I get myself. I am just going to let go and enjoy this man. I will open him up to new things without being pretentious, explain things to him without being condescending, and rely on him to teach me all of the languages he knows.