I had been doubting on texting him. That fleeting Belgian affair had marked me in many ways, but I didn’t consider it necessary to keep in touch. However, my ego thought exactly the opposite and managed to bring it to my mind pretty often and without any reason. I have this feeling he’d be at his office googling my name. Figuring out what else he’d be able to discover about me through distance. Daydreaming about me and our meet up. After all, his insistence on getting my number felt suspicious, as well as his message the next day, before parting to Brussels.
Two days after the weekend we met, while still deciding if I should write to him or not, I receive a message from him wishing me a happy week and letting me know how exhausting his trip home was. He was several years older than me, married with a kid. His affections and our encounter hadn’t escaped my memory since our farewell. My body remembered his touch, my mind his penetrating look and smile, my mouth his taste.
After a couple of messages I inquired about his age. I had a double 4 tattooed on my mind but needed to confirm if that man had left less footprints on my mind than I wished.
44, you’ve forgotten about it. No, I was right. That was the palindrome my mind displayed almost by default every certain amount of time.
No, I haven’t, just needed confirmation. But I do believe it’s you who I should forget about.
Yeah, maybe you should. And me. But I really doubt I can get to forget you.
Because I don’t forget intense moments. They are the ones that bring value to life.
Why do you think they bring value to life?
I don’t think so. I feel so. I feel alive with this.
I doubt my Belgian Affair has a marvelous life, and that makes me profoundly sad. I’m happy he feels alive and special with me. Wherever this might be going to, I just hope it’s heading to a safe port.