A Gooey Heart Cannot Break

Something I wrote sometime ago, in the myspace days...
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Myspace has these ads... On my myspace, they're always gay, presumably because I am of that persuasion and had clicked a mybutton indicating this.

So... there is this recurrent ad from Match.com which appears to be someone video chatting. Not just someone, the most adorable someone ever, my boyfriend, my myboyfriend. He is so cute! So cute I melt in sight of him. It's not just his features. It's they way he moves and his expressions. Totally captivating. Sometimes I would go to my myspace just to see him, and sometimes I would have to search for him, randomly clicking on my myfeatures until the right myad popped up. He has been one of my greatest secret joys, or rather had been.

Today, a housemate was on her myspace, and guess who showed up in her myMatch.com ad. Him! The two-timing, bisexual bastard!

That has got to break some law; it certainly broke my heart, my myheart at least. My real heart hasn't broken; real secret boyfriends have made it jello. Jello doesn't break.

It quivers.

And, it quivers every time I go to the bank 
 and I can always think of reasons — and I see him. He has an accent most charming and a face divine. Antonio Banderaesque, but as a roman sculpture, complete with a strong, dimpled chin. I couldn't quite place the accent. I couldn't decide if it was Iberian or Italian but unmistakably romantic! When he wrote a 9, I said "I can see you're from Europe by your nine" pointing. He backed up, holding his hands as if to display his crotch and said "oyyess..." Embarrassed, I looked to his chest and said "No, the number 9 you wrote." "I bet," he smirked, "you don't know where I'm from though." "Well," taking his wager, "I see your name is Daniele, so you are Italian." "You are de FIRSTta person to KNOW dat. EVeryonna DINKSsa I'mma Spanish, and dat DanIEle is a WOMAN'S namma. But DAT'Ssa dwo Lssa." Encouraged, I replied "that's a BIG difference!" glimpsing at what he still so proudly displayed. "I love you" I would have told him, but he already knew. His absorb-all-light-and-see-everything black diamond eyes still twinkle at me from afar though fate has not made him my clerk since that first day. This is a secret joy of mine. He makes me all gooey inside. Walking past the security guard, I feel light and languid but awkward and embarrassed, like I have just left a bathhouse.

And, there is the manager at the Walgreens. He seems to be from the Middle East. His hair and eyes are light. While the other employees joke with each other, he seems shy, and I rarely hear him speak. But, oh what a wonderful rarity! His accent and way of talking absolutely, intoxicatingly liquifying. I ask him questions just to feel my insides melt. He starts everything with "eeyis" and a long pause, as if he recognizing some deeper truth. "Your accent is very charming;" I finally erupted, asking "where are you from?" Sheepishly he replied "eeyis..." and looked at me and quickly looked away but then slowly returned his gaze to mine and then quickly turned my insides to goo, warm and sloshing. He did not continue, and I did not press. How could I, having become a colloidal suspension of intoxication and infatuation? Besides his face had reddened, and my questioned deadened with the answer he had already given so succinctly: "eeyis...", acknowledging the hidden truth of our unspoken and undying love.

But, why is it that the men who make me gooey have rings on their damned fingers or are apparently metrosexual frauds! Only once has a confirmed homosexual made me gooey, repeatedly actually — to this day, in fact. His picture is the background on my old laptop. When I revived it from its almost two year slumber, I saw him again and melted. He might have been going through a "phase" though. It was Berkeley, after all. I didn't confirm his persuasion. I never even spoke to him.

One hot day, if I am not careful, one of them is going to render me a puddle, and I will evaporate.

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