HOPELESS ROMANTIC
07/09/2017
Word count: 488
Approximate reading time: 2-3 minutes
"Cold foods are unhealthy?" Pedro's eyes
widened with surprise. On the desk sat the remains of his lunch: a half-bowl of
spicy noodles bought that morning from a quaint food stand down the street.
"All I'm saying is that you should heat it
up." I tossed the plastic container into the blue trash can next to our
coffee machine and shifted my chair closer to him. "You do realize we have
a microwave right there beside the sink…" My sentence tapered off as Pedro
began to make playful faces. He lifted his chin, pursed his lips, almost crafting
a playful pout. I couldn't help but smile, struggling to comprehend his
intentions. He handed me a napkin, silently pointing to my chin, where a
trickle of melted chocolate had strayed.
"I'll go get a drink after this; are you
coming?"
***
"Well told," those were the words of
encouragement I received when reading the latest draft of my play with the company.
Pedro approached me afterward, his eyes gentle and inquisitive, sincerity beaming
out through his thick beard.
"That was some storytelling. I'm PJ."
"Uh, Thanks?"
PJ, despite looking much like a marble statue coming
to life with his chiselled physique, exuded the grace and charm of a gentle
breeze on a summer's day. His every word and action felt as soothing as the
softest caress. He continued to shake my hand and offered to buy me a drink.
During the first several rounds, our conversation covered theatre, music, and
aspects of Chinese culture that piqued his curiosity. Then, with a sudden
change in tone, he asked about China's marijuana policies, leaving me puzzled
and intrigued.
And that's how I met Pedro.
Despite his charms, Pedro Jimenes defied easy
categorization. He drank like a bottomless chalice but conducted himself with
an innate decorum. His beard and long, flowing locks gave him the appearance of
a modern-day Viking, while his vintage clothing and quirky accessories scream “hipster
chic.”
One day, I invited him to join me at the theatre for Sondheim,
but he was nursing a terrible hangover. He suggested, "We should hit the pub
first; a pint of Peroni would surely cure my headache."
Of course, it didn't.
I had the chance to spend time at his place. Three
months had passed since he moved in, and his apartment remained relatively
bare. In his living room, three things stood out: a sofa covered with a faux
shear blanket (which often served as my temporary shelter), a dining table with
three chairs (there used to be four until the day I brought about its demise),
and a unique guitar, a gift from his previous job, crafted from cherrywood,
adorned with cryptic patterns, and inscribed with Shakespearean verses.
One evening, I had to work late on some writings and
missed my last train home. Pedro offered me his couch. The next morning, I woke
to find him on the balcony, barefoot, with a lit cigarette resting on the windowsill.
He held his guitar and sang softly, leaving invisible ripples in the air
between us. I
don't know if I can explain this leap in my head, but sometimes things change.
One instant there's everything you thought you knew, and the next, there's
everything that happened.
Later that day, during breakfast, I asked about the
song he had sung earlier.
"It's 'Arthur McBride.' Ever heard of it?"
He passed me a cup of breakfast tea. "Want some milk?"
"No and Yes." I thanked him for the tea;
truth be told, I desperately needed it.
Pedro picked up his guitar again. His left hand moved
through the fingerboard in eyelash steps, like a teardrop. The singing was so
soft almost unintelligible, something about water.
"Beautiful. What's this one called?"
"It's called 'Deep Water.' My girlfriend and I
created it for a play we were in."
"Play it again, will you?"
And he did. I listened motionlessly. It reminded me of
an afternoon in the company. It wasn't a scheduled rehearsal, and I couldn't
remember why I was there and why PJ was there. But we were there, with Pedro
playing the piano, and me singing.
"What's your full name, PJ?"
"Pedro Lozano. It's Colombian."
"Then why PJ? Where did that 'J' come from?"
"Just call me Pedro."
***
"I'll go get a drink after this; are you
coming?"
Out of nowhere, the lyrics to that song he whispered to
me came to my mind. My story began at sea, a perilous voyage to an unknown
land, and it led to a shipwreck that plunged us into deep waters.
I nodded.
As I stood up and put on my hat, I knew I wouldn't be
returning home.
"You bet I'm coming."