Flecks of Sun

I had a dream the night before that I had kissed him. I woke up in the morning thinking what a good dream, it was so vivid. Fast forward to this morning and I am waking up with the knowledge that I have kissed him. I’m certain I’ve been ruined for anyone else. It’s a kiss I can’t get out of my head, a kiss I’ll always remember. It sounds cliché and something out of a sapped paperback romance novel listed at 4 euros because there’s no quality content. But it’s true. If I never recall the details of his clothes, his eyes, his hands, or his voice; I will recall how he kissed me. I wondered if him being famous – in all seriousness- added to this notion that was the best kiss I’ve ever had. Perhaps some childhood wonder about cinema and Hollywood sweeps you up in this into conclusion that once you’ve been kissed by a star, you’ll never experience none alike.

I lean my hand over the bed and feel the blood start to rush to my head. No, it’s not star power. It’s the attraction that existed already, the surprise of emotion I’ve already felt and tried to suppress. It’s being kissed in return with the same fervency you delivered. Unlike cinema, nothing was acted, I felt in a sudden clarity that we had both given ourselves over to a passion we usually kept guarded. That is what now forced me to beckon reality back to my head. It’s a dangerous thing when your head overrules your heart and vice versa, there should always be a semblance of an equilibrium. I knew he had dated younger women; I knew this was not the embarking of “the one”. It was probably just a moment had, caught up in late night feelings and guards down. I sighed and looked at my phone. He hadn’t even messaged once. I wasn’t going to be the first to do it.

Rather, I was going to take Hemingway with me and stroll the parks of Paris and have a good reading session. I’d figure it out later. I debated taking my phone with me but left it. I would constantly be checking my phone if I had.

*

Ville woke troubled. His heart burned, he had to think about how much alcohol he had, had.
The hotel room was not blurry, but he felt incredibly nauseous. He felt very nauseous.
He gripped his chest as he sat up, it was not physically, it was mental. He thought over the previous night and he felt the same sick to the stomach feeling. But it wasn’t negative, it was overpowering, as if he was afraid of something good. He felt strange and decided fresh air would help his lungs.

The air and outdoors of Paris did knowing to wave away the nausea. It was not even a half hour before he was walking briskly back to the hotel and there he made plans for a brunch with Mige.

“You look troubled?” Mige ventured to ask taking in the antsy behavior of Ville.
Ville called over a waitress and ordered a grande espresso to Mige’s disapproval.
“WHAT?” Ville snapped and quickly apologized.
“What happened last night? You look like you’ve murdered someone and caffeine will only make you more jittery,” his friend said softly as some people stared at Ville’s outburst.
Ville rehashed the entire evening and when he got to the part about kissing Emile, he felt the intense passion in the pit of his stomach, coupled with his troubled nerves of the day and felt ill but not ill.
“I don’t know what is happening,” Ville said as he noticed his hands were slightly shaking.
“Are you disturbed?” Mige asked.
“No, it was-amazing and intense- I have no idea why I woke up this way rather than joyful.”
Mige paused to think and laughed.

“I think my dear man, you could possibly be falling a bit more than usual and you’re just nervous.”

“Nervous? Nervous?! I could throw up. How does a good evening equate to vomiting?”

“Think about the concept of head over heels, weak knees, butterflies in your stomach…” Mige rambled on. “Have you messaged her?”

The question brought the nausea back. He was nervous, he was so nervous he was unsettled.

“No.”

“Will you? We leave soon, what is the next move, date?”

“I don’t know. Maybe for now, there is none.”

“We came all the way to Paris for this! Now there is none? Ville it wasn’t even a booty call then!”

Mige’s last words were barely heard because Ville made his way to the elevator. He was no longer feeling like throwing up, he was going to. Mige sat alone now in the café, having just shouted “booty call” after Ville, as the waitress awkwardly delivered the coffees.

In his room, Ville dashed to the bathroom and everything came up. At the end, the force of emptying his stomach resulted in burst facial muscles and burst blood vessels but he hardly noticed as he passed out on the bed. His head was awash in thoughts of her, in the overwhelming emotion, and he knew he was scared. He hadn’t felt this in a long time, he hadn’t allowed himself too.

*
The afternoon passed into evening and no message came. Perhaps he had a busy day, but I knew he was leaving today or tomorrow. I had thought I would see him again or make a plan about how to stay in touch. The good news, is whatever came of it, she had kept her guard up. She was not going to allow herself to be swept up into it, and surprisingly she was great at it. It bummed her out at first but by the next morning she felt better. Until she exited the apartment and headed to a corner café for a breakfast. Though not as common anymore, newspaper and magazine stands still sold the publications along with beverages and food.

I decided to grab that day’s magazine of gossip. Something light-hearted to take my attention off of Ville which was becoming harder to do. Lis decided to join me as it was late morning and she had risen earlier than I to go running. I saw from afar she had already grabbed us pastries and tea. I was starving and tossed the paper on the table and gave her a hug.

“Long time no see,” I joked.

“Yes, a long two hours or so,” Lis returned the joke.

“What is in today’s news?” she asked flipping open the paper.

“Who knows, fashion?” I mused as I bit into a danish, crumbs falling onto the table as Lis raised an eyebrow. I mouthed sorry with a full mouth. She had a bit more manners but I was just so hungry.

She rattled off about Brad and Jolie’s ongoing divorce, the golden globe nominations, and then laughed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Some “celebrity” caused a scene at the Peninsula hotel,” she laughed again.

“What was the cause?” I asked.

“Shouting about procuring booty calls and one night stands and one left with blood shot eyes so they are assuming there was some big drug binge with prostitutes. It was a Scandinavian band apparently,” she said without any hint of detection.

I caught it, because I always catch the finer details.
“Let me see that,” I said and flipped the paper over where the story continued with a photo and the caption “Scandal at the Peninsula!” The photo was in black and white but as clear as day was Ville and his eyes looked a bit different. I pushed the danish away and tried to think.

“Em?” Lis asked and grabbed the paper. She read it and put it down.

“Oh, Em. I am sorry but don’t jump to any conclusions yet. Has he messaged?”
“No,” I said and I felt the shame of being a fool rise to my face. I tried to compose myself but all the air of the once passionate night went out and I felt a fool. I felt the need to save face, even though no one knew about the night we shared.

“Will you reach out to him? Just ask or say hello? Pretend you don’t know for now,” Lis pressed.

“I don’t know. Maybe I won’t, for now I don’t want to.”

The guard that been there inside my feelings, quickly went down as I prepared to flood myself with disappointment now rather than put my guard up with overflowing emotion and feel the hurt later.

“Was it a waste?” Lis asked.

“No. If we always had hindsight and could re-do mistakes, we’d live a very easy life being able to undo our mistakes. No it was not a waste, for a few moments in my life, I lost my breath in something truly beautiful.”

Lis and I just stared at each other before I added. “Besides I won’t speculate on the matter.”

*

When Ville took his seat in business glass he removed his sunglasses. He had thrown up so much and burst his facial and eye vessels. Now Seppo and their management was discussing what the tabloids were concocting. It was utterly laughable and sad. The Peninsula had an inquest into whether drugs were involved per their policy and found none. The newspaper that ran the story was now accepting the hotel’s results and wanted a statement from the band, thus Ville.

“The fact that we even need to issue a statement,” Mige lamented. It was quite pathetic what story they’d developed from Mige’s outburst and their exit where Ville’s eyes were noticeable red. “This is why I don’t like these swanky hotels, even if you’re one degree famous they sniff their noses at any gossip and run wild to the press. All in the name of making a dollar,” Mige continued.

Ville just nodded his head in agreement. He had a pounding headache and confusion in his heart.
He was too old for this; he was too old for her. He kept trying to reason everything and he still hadn’t messaged her. He was just leaving. He was too old for that, leaving was an immature action, for the young. She should be the one leaving, her age allowed that. But his fear overruled his logic, his curiosity for her.

“Well?” Mige asked.

Ville lost in thought answered, “Tell her I’m sorry for the misunderstanding and that I left without clearing it up with her. But I can’t do it right now.”

Mige nodded and wrote down the words, thinking nothing of it and e-mailed it to management.

*
Because my curiosity never died, I did the inevitable. After four days since the newspaper published the story, I searched Google for any update. The hotel had found no basis for the story and the band released a simple statement, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding and that I left without clearing it up. But I can’t do it right now.” The last part was ambiguous but was explained by the press as the band’s busy schedule. I sighed. There was relief on one hand that there was no story but on the other hand no answers or contact from him. I shut down my Mac and tried to sleep on it to resolve the inner curiosity in my head. If I thought I knew the finer things, I missed the double meaning in the message and didn’t try to question who “her” was in that statement.

At the same time under the Parisian ceilings above my head and the metal airplane ceiling above Ville’s, we didn’t know that in Helsinki their newspapers were just drying the ink on their latest headline.