What I Did on My Summer Vacation, Part 3

Back at the B&B after purchasing some Tylenol at the “dep” (i.e., dépanneur, Québec French referring to a corner store) near the Beaudry metro station, I called Mr. J and made tentative plans for Sunday (which, incidentally, never materialized). Then I called Cleopatrick to confirm I would arrive in his neck of the woods on Monday afternoon. After that I just sat on the balcony for a few smokes until I noticed that my headache was gone. So about an hour after I had left the little park on Ste-Cat, I returned there with a bottle of water I picked up at the dep.

Shortly after I arrived, the Andrews lookalike also returned. This time I nodded more assertively, and this time he came over and asked me, “May I sit with you?” I think he may have asked in French first but he quickly indicated that he was more comfortable in English …or Spanish, since he’s from Mexico. So English it would be, and he sat beside me.

At this point, I don’t mean to be coy but I shouldn’t give too many details about him, in part because a detailed “kiss and tell” on this blog wouldn’t be fair to him, and in part because it’s necessary for his sake not to publish too much personal info about him. So what handle should I give him in this blog?

Mi PoemaWell, quite spontaneously later on, I found myself calling him — now prepare yourself for a heavy-duty dose of corniness — mon beau prince aux cheveux longs (my beautiful long-haired prince), but that’s a bit of a mouthful, not to mention that I should not want to make my few but dear readers gag repeatedly. But before I left Cleopatrick last Thursday, I confided that the word that comes to my mind when I think of him — again brace yourself — is poetry. Slim, graceful, and taller than me, he is 29, erudite (Spanish literature), passionate yet soft-spoken, has the kindest brown eyes I have ever had the pleasure of drowning myself into, and a spectacular mane of dark hair which, when untied, is positively regal. His genetic heritage is truly mestizo as would be expected from “the greatest genetic laboratory in world,” as he put it. Thus, all this together leads to one stunningly handsome man who quite simply takes my breath away, leaving me nearly speechless. So as presumptuous as it may be, I am compelled to refer to him herein as El Poema.

We spent the whole night on Ste-Cat talking and walking, walking and talking, sitting and talking, until finally I just had to gently kiss this most incredible man I had had the great fortune of meeting — onlookers be damned! Eventually I brought him to my room, and while I don’t want to dip into the TMI file, I will say that it was the furthest thing from raunchy. At one point, accustomed as I am to people commenting on my eyes, I matter-of-factly explained they “came” from my father’s side, for as I wrote in his eulogy, my father had “beautifully soft grey blue eyes.” And to that El Poema said, almost whispering, “Your father is still living in your eyes.”

That’s when I nearly started to cry.

Moving stranger,
Does it really matter,
As long as you’re not afraid to feel?
Touch me, hold me.
How my open arms ache!
Try to fall for me.

How I’m moved.
How you move me
With your beauty’s potency.
You give me life.
Please don’t let me go.
You crush the lily in my soul.

Kate Bush — Moving (mp3, 2.9 MB, 3:03)