Post Office
There is a guy. I think he likes me. What’s more, I think I like him, too. I don’t know his name and I don’t know anything about him. I’m very careful no to find out any details about the subject of my admiration. The fact he exists is more than enough for me. We always meet at the same place, at the same time for about a month or more. I can hardly recall the moment I realized I was interested in him. It might be because I always fancy someone. To be honest, I always fancy more than one guy at the same time. It’s nothing serious. It’s more like passing boring moments of life and testing imagination.
Of course, everything happens unobtrusively. If anyone started to be suspicious about my secret game, I would immediately stop myself and look for another subject for my thoughts. That is a demanding occupation, though. Why? Handsome guys in Amsterdam are either gay, either married (or having girlfriends). Or both. Unfortunately, in the small proportion of the rest I’m not interested.
So there is this average guy I think I like. And I think he likes me, too. Our regular meetings hasn’t changed much since the beginning (of which I don’t remember). Sometimes we look at each other, sometimes we just pass each other’s way pretending we don’t care about the other. Both of us know it’s not true, but it belongs to the game. It’s nothing serious. It’s something, though. I’m trying to imagine his voice. The quiet whisperings that are supposed to be some kind of greetings are never long and loud enough to make clear idea about his voice. I’m trying to imagine what kind of life he lives, what kind of things he likes... Is he happy about Obama, too?
I’m trying to imagine how our regular meetings would take a turn. How this mutual sympathy would turn into reality. According to my imagination, the world would stop at that moment. There would be only the two of us standing in the middle of the universe. We would embrace each other gently, but long. We would kiss each other and that kiss would restore the balance of the universe. After that, everything would keep on going smoothly as if it had been always like that. I’m afraid that any other ways would end up in bitter disappointment. So please, don’t talk. Just kiss.
Of course, everything happens unobtrusively. If anyone started to be suspicious about my secret game, I would immediately stop myself and look for another subject for my thoughts. That is a demanding occupation, though. Why? Handsome guys in Amsterdam are either gay, either married (or having girlfriends). Or both. Unfortunately, in the small proportion of the rest I’m not interested.
So there is this average guy I think I like. And I think he likes me, too. Our regular meetings hasn’t changed much since the beginning (of which I don’t remember). Sometimes we look at each other, sometimes we just pass each other’s way pretending we don’t care about the other. Both of us know it’s not true, but it belongs to the game. It’s nothing serious. It’s something, though. I’m trying to imagine his voice. The quiet whisperings that are supposed to be some kind of greetings are never long and loud enough to make clear idea about his voice. I’m trying to imagine what kind of life he lives, what kind of things he likes... Is he happy about Obama, too?
I’m trying to imagine how our regular meetings would take a turn. How this mutual sympathy would turn into reality. According to my imagination, the world would stop at that moment. There would be only the two of us standing in the middle of the universe. We would embrace each other gently, but long. We would kiss each other and that kiss would restore the balance of the universe. After that, everything would keep on going smoothly as if it had been always like that. I’m afraid that any other ways would end up in bitter disappointment. So please, don’t talk. Just kiss.
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