Curry Favour.

You made the stars appear just for me. Twice. The first time you saw me I could feel your eyes burning into me—the presence of your stare a hot icicle. I sat near you, met my friends; you watched me through the air composed of exhaled smoke and an occasional blast of beer breath, and you saw something so beautiful, something so unique, something so unlike anything else you have ever seen.

You did not see me mutter to my friends about you, out of the left side of my mouth; you didn't see me cultivate the light hitting my face; you didn't see me aligning myself so that my cheekbones and jaw line were perfectly accentuated. You didn't see my pulse quicken as I glanced at you casually, never locking eyes for more than a brief second. An intelligent friend, aware of my ploy, leaned over to me and said, "You are never more beautiful than when you are adored." You created a star.

Then you left, and this star went out, extinguished before I even knew I was ablaze. The next day I thought of you, the next night you became starlit prose. The night after you became moonlit that tossed and turned. After a few days I returned to my seat at that bar, then again, then again, but you did not reappear. I was forced to consider you a mere passing, like all the other Dick Toms and Harrys who have devoured me with eyes, but never spoke.

But when I retained but a dim memory of you, you reappeared; rather, I reappeared one night as you were leaving. I sat down, watched you put on your coat, and watched you start to leave with your friends, but you illuminated me once more as you walked by and put your hand on my shoulder. You looked at me and grinned, then left out the backdoor without saying a word. I already knew your name.

And I went out the front to huddle in a wind protected shadow to call my friend, to tell her about The Gorgeous One for the second time. And you walked past, on your way to the El. I hung up, called out your name, you stopped. You just moved into town you said, and then procured a blue wallet that had your brand new phone number in it, then gave it to me. You gave me a time to call you, and I did, then extended my hand-we were in public. You grabbed me around the waist and I sucked in my gut, you pulled me close to you, licked my ear, kissed my cheek, said, "Call me" and left.

I returned to my friends at the bar, radiant, letting my body return to its normal shapeless shape, thinking only of you, wanting to know more, showing off your number-7 small digits, a prize, a claim-to those around.

I delayed for two days, then called you. You just awoke, you said there was no better way to be woken, then under your breath said, "Peut-Átre." Ah oui, I said, and you became awake; you gained a new dimension; a life in Paris, a few blocks down the Boulevard Beaumarchais from where I used to live. Tomorrow, I suggested, we can meet; but tomorrow was bad for you but today was good. Suddenly 25 minutes had passed and I was late for work.

Our first meeting you said I dressed like a prince. I did, a result of agonizing over the outfit for the entire day, detesting the lack of time I had to prepare before driving over to see you where we met for coffee. You didn't smoke, and I surreptitiously snuck nicotined gum when you weren't looking at my eyes, my hands, my chest, my face. Your accent was beautiful, and you excused my French aged 7 years, and I excused your heavy accent and slowly turned phrases. Neither of us excused the others eyes or lips.

You are renovating an old theater, closed for 12 years, fallen into disrepair, curtains moulding, must collecting. You walked me there, we went inside, you asked me to lock the door. The theater was damp, you took my hand and led me around, a flashlight pinpointing broken glass, casual graffiti, old mattresses. I stood on stage, you told me to wait then disappeared. I paused as your flashlight trailed off and observed the decay around me. "Ferme tes yeux" you said, and when I reopened them the entire ceiling was filled with pinpoints of light; thousands of tiny light bulbs imbedded in the ultramarine blue ceiling formed an entire galaxy. You were standing behind me, arms around my waist, turned me around, then kissed me deeply with lips sweetened by sugar and breath roasted with coffee, your scent, and the nervous sweat on your forehead—the only thing that betrayed your confidence. The speed at which you moved me though the theater a distant memory as your tongue glided around languorously, and your pointed nose pressed to the side of mine, casting breath down my cheek.

I knew you were different; I knew you were different from the others in the way you carried yourself, the habit you had of interrupting me because I choose my words carefully and because you are allergic to silence. The way you spoke with your hands, carrying entire conversations with motions; the way your lips moved around English words, tongue licking them new pronunciations, then staring at me when lost for an expression. You were French and didn't mind wearing the same clothes for a few days. You knew things about different places, you weren't dry-veined and restricted. You had seen things, tasted things, known things that few others had. You were uncommon, like me, and I adored you.

And then one night you were at my house, sitting on my bed because I am poor and have no sofa, and we cuddled, we kissed, but your kisses were brief. Their brevity spoke before you did. But when you did, you became typical, you became standard; you became every Don, Tom, Ron; Jane, Jenna, and Jackie I'd gone through like Kleenex in the past few months; those who enter in a whirlwind and say exactly like you did/do/will say: "You're wonderful, you're funny, you're intelligent, you're sweet, you're beautiful, but I must be fair to you; I cannot love you because I already love Mr Miss or Mrs. X Y, J K, LMNO, and P."

And as I absorbed the shock, you felt as if the weight has been lifted off your chest, and in its place was carte blanche, and you begin to kiss me; as I absorbed the shock and inserted the words you actually said into the Alphabet Soup Clich¹ I've collected and maintain in my brain you began to rub my dick and started for my belt. As the shock and the disappointment collected in my center bending my heart and collapsing my lungs I realized that it was fortunate I wore wearing my Cartier belt which requires the undoing of a concealed lock before access is granted.

I then stood, angry, pissed, and absolutely unsurprised. You stood up too, your urgency pressing against your pants, as if you were ultimately aroused by the destruction of the beautiful situation you crafted; fuck, that I crafted for you. This deliberate and assisted entropy more alluring to you than 8000 raw oysters and the sight of me eating a banana.

I stood, numbed, as I always am when I find my dreams and hopes destroyed by cheap vulgarity, and you were behind me, pulling off my pants. I started to stop you, I put my hands behind my back, then the phone rang. I seized the opportunity to interrupt you, to answer it but it was grabbed, END was pressed, my arm twisted behind my back and pushed upwards. You shoved me onto the bed, used your knees to spread my legs and with your free arm grabbed and dug at my place with vociferous urgency. I clenched myself, but at the sensation of this you were even more aroused.

You may have succeeded, but then the zephyr of self-preservation, of anger, the anger at you, at Don Tom Ron Jane Jenna Jackie, at your clichés, at your presumption, at your insistence, flooded me, and I heard felt saw you become two-a-penny common, ordinary, standard, run-of-the-mill; so fucking universal. I flipped over onto my back, you began to seize the opportunity, I raised my legs as if you were deserving and put my feet on your chest. You leaned forward and I buckled, I grunted, I pushed you off with these legs last measured at capable of pushing 580 pounds. You were propelled into the wall on the opposite side of the bed, and landed so deliciously onto my bike. I got up, grabbed you by the collar and slammed you face first into the wall. You rattled the mirror and I used my 50 pound advantage thank merciful god for cheeseburgers to pin you against it, and devil inspired tones told you don't make me do that again.

My clarity of the situation contagious, you caught it, you realized what had happened. You slumped against the wall and with holy inspiration and holy vacillation apologized but I was already in the bathroom with the door locked searching for any chemical bottle full of sprayable blinding light. Armed, I returned to find the musk of anger dissipating into the ceiling. I breathed, scanned the room, went to the door, locked it, leaned against it, and let my innards liquefy into the transparency of the world.