We almost made love under the house on fire (1/3)
The beginning of an affair that consumed me
In early November my friends and I went to a former porn theater in Madrid. Forty years ago, pleasure indulgers gathered in Sala Equis to watch someone on top of something inside whatever else the Spanish pleased. Now smokey cherry lighting glows as people toast with overpriced cocktails. People like my friends and I.
A tinto de verano and amaretto sour were churning like a magic potion in my stomach. I stood in line for the bathroom with Mursal when she made a comment that made me roar in full-body laughter greater than the joke probably was funny. I lost balance and stumbled into the chest behind me.
I turned around to apologize and faced a thin man in a pressed black suit. Circular glasses and a clean five-o’clock shadow complemented his sculpted face and soft curls slicked back, subdued by hair gel. He didn’t look entirely Spanish, but his smile was too friendly not to be. Breaking away from his intense gaze — in equal parts embarrassment and curiosity — I took in the rest of him. His slacks, hemmed to the perfect length, just grazed his ankles. And that’s when I saw them. The signature accessory of every man who has managed to charm me with sophistication, the promise of maturity, and a sense of security: loafers.
I forgot to say sorry.
Mursal slipped inside the bathroom, and I stepped out of line to wait for her. I stood near Loafers as he waited in line with a woman in an equally stunning suit. He could’ve looked more intimidating if not for the eager smile plastered across his face. They spoke in soft Spanish while my gaze drifted back to his loafers, traced up his slacks, lingered on the buttons running up his chest, and landed on his ring finger. No ring. I checked the other hand for good measure. Still nothing. His eyes caught mine.
“I like your suit,” I blurted out.
His face broke into a cheesy grin. “Thank you,” he replied. His accent was sweet, and I wanted to taste it. “What is your name?”
An hour later I was at Casa Suecia, a rooftop bar in the city center, surrounded by a funny union of friends: Odin and Richie, English teachers I met in Spain; Mursal, a dear friend from my early teenage years; and Eddie, who I met in university and was visiting for the weekend. I was eyeing the heavily tatted bartender until he noticed. He winked at me. My phone buzzed.
I remembered giving Loafers my number and inviting him to Casa Suecia. But who were ‘we’? Maybe the girl from line. Girlfriend? Girl space friend? I didn’t ponder for long because my friends were migrating to the second floor of the rooftop and the warmth of my third drink was finally fighting off shivers from the cold. I sent my location and waved the bartender over for another glass of wine.
The DJ played a song, and I recognized the rhythm. I grabbed Eddie’s hands and guided him through the beginner bachata I’d learned in the past two weeks, which looked more like big steps and stumbles than dancing. We laughed and took up space with the confidence of experts practicing a perfected choreography. Eddie looked at me kindly and said he was happy to see me happy in Madrid.
I was happy — but only recently. For months, nostalgia tightened my chest every time I thought about everyone I loved and remembered how far they were from me. For the first time, friendship became the focal point of my life. I had gone on dates, too, but drinking a cheap, more-cranberry-than-vodka vodka cranberry in front of an unfamiliar face didn’t give me that sense of home. Seeing people who felt like home did.
On my final twirl with Eddie, I spotted Loafers at the entrance. Behind him was another man, stockier and more casually dressed, with a smirk that looked like anything but good news. Loafers introduced me to his friend, whose name I forgot the second after I heard it, and who almost immediately took a spot at the bar to chat up a woman in a revealing red dress, just as his earlier smirk told me he would.
Loafers looked at me for direction, and I felt a punch of pre-determined exhaustion. I didn’t want to feel responsible for entertaining him. I was finally starting to feel joy in Spain and didn’t want to give any time, even a few harmless minutes, to anyone who didn’t fill me with joy the way my friends did.
I turned to Richie and Odin and half-heartedly introduced them to Loafers. The rest of the group joined us, and we chatted by the bar while Loafers lingered in the background. My friends took note of the situation and faithfully pulled me deeper into their conversation. We laughed and clinked with new cocktails, and I felt restored by the unspoken understanding found in solidified friendships. My friends and I left soon thereafter. I don’t remember saying goodbye to the man who ventured across the city to see me.
Every few days for three weeks, Loafers tried to schedule a date, but I was busy in love. In love, also known as in the company of loved ones. I also felt unsettled by his appearance at Casa Suecia.
But he persisted, and part of me respected that. Another part thought that after a date we would both inevitably find boring, we’d part ways. Plus, he wore loafers, so at the very least I could enjoy a free drink.
I agreed to see him on a Saturday night but made it clear I wasn’t searching for anything beyond friendship. Seeing Loafers wanted out of this what I thought he did, I thought he’d cancel. I hoped he would.
Not long thereafter, my phone pinged.
The next day at eight o’clock, I met Loafers smoking a cigarette, leaning against the wall outside Sala Equis. He wore a black suit that hugged and hung around his body in all the right places. I looked down to see bold red socks above polished loafers.
He grabbed two tinto de veranos from the bar, and we took a seat under familiar cherry lights. I noticed his hands shaking ever so slightly. I spoke gently to soothe him and asked questions he’d know the answers to.
Loafers was a mergers and acquisitions lawyer who believed everyone has a moral obligation to get rich young, so that’s exactly what he was doing. He was a bad student but a good worker. Loafers couldn’t have been much older than me, but he looked younger and bounced with excitement as he talked about his aspirations. Law was just a way to make money. When he had enough, he’d quit and pursue art.
I suppressed an eye roll and maintained exaggerated arched eyebrows while twirling the straw in my drink, hoping the ice cubes melted faster.
I’d gone on dates in which men were more interested in exploring their professional careers or personal goals — which, more often than you’d think, involved exhausting themselves in high-paying, exploitative roles to then drop everything for creative pursuits they had a surface-level knowledge of — instead of the person they’d asked out. This meant I could pretend to listen while I thought about organizing my schedule for the next day, or what ingredients I needed to add to my grocery list. Call me what you want, but the way I see it, I’m letting them entertain themselves while I get some work done.
He returned the question. I wracked my brain for what I’d asked him, remembering it was about what work brought him to Madrid.
I told Loafers that I’d moved to Spain for a year to enjoy myself, to fill my youth with memories to intoxicate me on sobering nights. I’d recited this script in front of dates before, and though I knew I risked veering into romanticized idealism, I felt it becoming true. He looked at me, attentive and unblinking, with striking brown eyes, and I pretended to not notice their softness.
We finished our drinks and stood up. He asked me if I wanted to go to another bar, his tone hinting more at hope than curiosity. I saw an easy out, but a small part of me didn’t want to take it. Not yet. He watched as I slipped into my blazer.
“You’re elegant,” he said.
I had long grown tired of compliments on my appearance, but this one blended mind and manner in a way that made me blush.
“And you know how to compliment a woman,” I responded.
We took a seat outside a restaurant nearby. A waiter approached us, and Loafers ordered two tinto de veranos. I make it a point to order for myself but hearing silky Spanish spill from his mouth made me reconsider. The waiter walked away, and I pulled out my award-winning date conversation move.
“What do you think about the dating scene here?”
He paused only to say little, something about Spanish women being bold, before hastily asking me the same. This was interesting. Most men loved to linger at this question as a chest-baring performance of how many women have drooled over them. Maybe he hadn’t dated much, which I kind of liked, not in a purist way but in a shy-guy way. Maybe he didn’t want to answer honestly.
I answered that Spanish men were too forward for my liking. I had qualms with dating in the U.S., but at least there, men took things slow if they weren’t just trying to get laid. In Spain, I felt like everyone regardless of intention was racing to pounce on me the first chance they could find.
“Is a kiss at the end of a first date too fast?,” Loafers asked.
I stopped sipping my drink. Was he doing what I thought he was?
“Yes, it is,” I replied, shifting my gaze to set the glass in front of me. I changed the topic.
We talked about being first-generation children of immigrants. I’m American born to Indian parents and he was Spanish born to Armenian parents. We didn’t cover unique ideas about dual-identity experiences, but there’s only so much empathy my dates, most of whom were white Europeans for generations, or my largely white English teacher friends could offer. Our conversation picked up pace. I spoke with Loafers as freely as I did with my closest friends in Texas and tried to ignore the thought of feeling a little at home.
Just as Loafers asked if I wanted another drink, my phone buzzed with a text from a friend who was waiting for me. I’d strategically scheduled the date before plans for a night out, knowing I might need an excuse to escape. I ended up wishing that I had more time to spare.
I extended my arms for a parting hug and said that I hoped to see him again. The words felt familiar after a date, but this time, they were also sincere. I didn’t know this man but I wanted to.
An hour later, I texted Loafers. A few minutes later, my phone flashed with a new message.
He really knew how to compliment a woman.