Rohit

A meeting at the Cosmopolitan hotel in Las Vegas.

Tannins

I didn’t expect to like you.
Not that I do.
Like you, that is.
But you’re better than I thought you’d be. This is better than I thought it would be.

We met once, a year ago. What have I done in a year? Not much. Gotten older... What have you done? Maybe a lot. You have a job. You traveled and lived in Athens. In Peru.

Machu Picchu. Bless You.

I thought you were older...

“How’s the wine?” The server asks with her eyes. The wine is alright. It flows between my pursed lips.

We’re at a posh patisserie with dark wood décor, and more windows than walls. We set at a table for two before the waiter comes over to ask what we want. You continue to order for me.

I tell you I like white but we order red. A Cabernet cabaret. It swirls around aimlessly in your glass cup leaving remnants of tannins and alcohol that cling to the edge and stream down like tear drops. Or maybe it’s plastic. It doesn’t look like plastic but it could be.

At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised.
It’s all marketing. You never know when something is really done right:
Everything emulates something better; but it’s just what it is and nothing more and nothing less.

So I let you kiss me just before dessert.

I’m caught up in the wine and the talk of your family. Getting swept in the dream and possibility that I’m not really here...in Vegas alone.

You’re Hindu and you have better style than most. You like words more than most. You’re less aggressive than most. Maybe more charming. Your accent is charming.

You could be gone in the morning. You would be gone in the morning. You should be gone in the morning. But you “miss me already.” So you postponed you emigration one more night.

Enough.
You don’t know me enough to miss me.

We would fight. You might have grown up with two women but I didn’t: I’m selfish.

I never last in relationships. I have an expiration date of two years. By then I get a dog and let you keep it. By then I grow stale from poor communication and false expectations. Of letting you come first. By then I find someone else. At least one. Maybe I don’t physically cheat�"but I detach. I fear that I’m just like my imperfect parents.

I let you talk about religion.

Who’s religious anymore? We worship things more than people and people more than God(s).

I don’t think I showered today. I smell the ripe sweat of the bald man on the yoga mat next to me from the class a few hours ago. That seems so long ago...
Right after I offended the other one.

“I’m doing fine thanks.” Like I need to ask first? This communication is instant. I’m using you no more than you’re using me. People all have value. We all have places. That’s why we do things...everything.

Your name means red.

My name means Christmas. An allusion to the party where my Parents met, and the silver screen Actress whom they loved. No, not like that at all. They got married first and waited years before having me. Like good Christians.

He walks me to my car, because he wants me to think he’s a gentleman and that’s what good gentlemen always do in movies just before they get the girl. We stop for a single coconut mocha first as he tells me all men want to be like James Bond.

I don’t usually like coffee at this hour. He ate most of the dessert he spoon-fed to me and I’m not satisfied.

I want more.