Shall I Fall in Love Again (Part 1)

Is This Love Too?

In her eyes, I see the beauty of a thousand galaxies, the tapestry of a million stars stretched across a dark moonless night sky. I get lost as I traverse the depths underneath her eyelids, and as though touching diamond upon diamond, I’m overtaken by the delight of the love that could be ours. Call it delulu, but I’m entranced each time she walks by, and my neurons seem to short-circuit as her gait leaves me spellbound. Her flawless smile flashes her beautifully aligned teeth, resembling pristine white china on display. If God were an automobile manufacturer, she would make a Limited Edition.

You see, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been in love and how many times I’ve been jilted, often just a few weeks in. You can call me eX. Maybe I just need to work more on myself, but I honestly think there’s more to it than meets the eye—often, I can’t but think my village people have a hand in it. My friends say I eat breakfast for a living. Maybe I really am a finished man, or maybe my shame is all finished and all that’s left now is desperation. But am I desperate? Or am I just human?

The thing is I have a strong feeling this is different. First, because she’s a classmate. Oh yeah, some of the previous ones were classmates too. But that’s not the point. She’s a different kind of classmate—she’s quite smart, and intimidatingly so. The saucy combination of her wittiness and her semi-American accent often paralyses me. We don’t talk much, and we aren’t so close (yet), but each time our eyes meet, it is like a momentary flicker in my dark world and a temporary relief from stupor-like singleness. Her words’ slick and steady pace incites an adrenaline rush that nearly jolts my heart out of my rib cage. Her poise is heavenly, my goodness. How finished of a man does one have to be to notice these things?

I think she’s single, and she appears beyond my league, but that makes it worth the risk, innit? What’s the worst that could possibly happen—that I haven’t already seen anyway? Of course, my friends don’t think things will be different this time. Last night, for instance, one of them said I collect heartbreaks like rare stamps – always looking for the next one to add to my collection – and right now, I’m only onto my next. The other said if I wrote a book on relationships, it would be titled “The Art of Being Left Hanging,” since my dating history reads like a “how-to” guide on gracefully accepting rejection. I felt that. But I’m unfazed.

I’m about to embark on a journey whose destination I do not know. My past is littered with experiences upon experiences that make me want to crawl under my bed and stay cut off from people. But you see, with all due respect, love is a bastard—at least this one—because in the face of love, all these considerations evaporate into oblivion. Each experience, though bittersweet (bitter for the most part), ought to be a scar that reminds me not to put my heart in the hands of women, yet I never seem to learn. I don’t understand why each time, like a fool, I keep putting my hand in these flames, hoping I won’t get burnt. Maybe it’s because I—or we—were made for love. Or maybe she’s just a witch who has me held spellbound. It’s 7:32 pm. I don a black body hug tee, with a pair of grey joggers, and an intense spray of 24K perfume. I head out.

Mr. eX