My hands are sweaty. I rub them on my navy dress pants and glance at the clock.
2:26.
My heart starts beating faster, and it's so loud, I'm sure he'll hear it the moment he arrives. I bounce my knees up and down, trying to get the nerves and the jitters out of my system before he gets here. Three minutes later I hear the door alarm sound. Any second now he'll be walking through that door.
Well, not... walking, per se.
chapter | music
Arcos da Lapa, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
It was Sunday night; cold and drizzling. He left the Riachuelo Street, walked through the Lapa Arches. He was holding an empty Itaipava longneck bottle, too much of a good boy to simply dispose of it. He walked to the Joaquim Silva street, found the one open bar—a boteco really. Two men played pool in the back, silently, only the billiard balls clacking together, a random football league game rerun on a mute TV hung up high, old enough to have witnessed Pelé in his heyday. No Pelé now though, only Botafogo and Fluminense FC fighting off relegation zone earlier that week. He put a coin in the jukebox, picked Tim Maia's saddest song and chugged down cheap beer like it was water. At some point, the owner let him know the bar's closing. He grabbed another beer and ventured out in the streets again, sitting on the steps of Selarón's staircase, all the tourists long gone. There was nowhere else to go and truth was—he'd never walk up those steps anymore.
Maybe he knew that.
São Paulo Mountain Range, Brazil
With the direct light on him, I prove myself once again right; Ben really is pretty cute. Handsome, even. He has a nice face structure, features that are both elegant and mature, in a way that there’s no way they were there ten years ago. There’s no beard, but I wonder if maybe there should have, just so it can add to the whole look. Then again, this is probably too formal for beards. His coffee brown eyes are framed by thick lashes I’d definitely die for and his hair is cut pretty short, which definitely suits him. He can’t be younger than thirty five, or older than forty really, but you never really know it with men.
“Who are you hiding from?” I ask as I watch him from across the table we found near the balcony. His eyes had been wandering around the crowd and they settle on me.
Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life, Mark Twain once said.
But that's a lie. That's the biggest lie ever told by a white american guy, although it likely isn't. But love doesn't pay the bills—unless you're lucky enough to have married rich.
I'm not lucky enough.
So I took it upon me to alter the damn saying so it's a lot less hypocritical; work with something you love—and you'll never love anything ever again.
There. I said it.
"Ok, I've a serious question now-" I balance the huge plastic cup in one hand. I'm sitting in one of the concrete seats at the park; Ben is sitting in his chair, positioned in front of me. I gotta look up at him, which is a nice thing—for a change. "Is your name really Bernardo Bernstein?"
He nearly chokes at his freshly pressed sugarcane juice—a local specialty. He sets down his cup right between his legs.
"Why on earth would you think that?"
I lashed out at an intern. A goddamn intern.
They're babies—stupid, stupid babies, but babies nonetheless. They need patience, an ocean of patience; when I turned into a proper nurse, I promised myself I wouldn't join hospital toxic culture, and lashing out is definitely not like me, but I feel like a fucking jenga tower right now. All I need is a gentle sway, the softest of breezes, to go crumbling down and ruining everyone's day.
