A neat boy.
You know when they say, the person you fall in love with reflects in some ways, the man your father is? I never quite agreed. The thought of seeing traces of my father in my lover was revolting and I never entertained the thought for more than the second is crossed my mind.
Now,though... Now that I look at him from a distance, I realize what they said was almost true. Now, that we hesitate to cross the same paths again, or meet gazes again, while my father is observed at home by me every day, I see the subtle similarities..
The temper, the sense of humor, music, the lean structure in youth, the charming ways of brewing romance, the arched flying eyebrows of curiosity, the mischievous smile,the shy smile,the pride.... But then again, there are roaring differences. The ego, the irrationality, the immaturity, the insecurity, the spineless liar in him.. Now, that I look at him from an unbiased parallel world, I see all the cross and naughts, the flaws, the qualities. I look at him, I look through him now.
My father was particularly fond of him. "A neat boy!" is what he said,cheering his glass of whiskey. Then again, the cult of entering the college of my Father's was another boastful moment for Him and my father. "The legacy is in good hands!", my father laughed on a Sunday brunch while he sat across the table, talking Politics with my Father.
When He told my father he wanted to marry his daughter soon, the day he got his first job, my father puffed another cloud of smoke from his pipe and patted on his back. A glisten of pride and comfort in his eyes. My father invited him for drinks that night, I remember. And my drunk father cried that night, almost threatening him to never break my heart. I had to take him to his room, and he had to put the blanket on his feet. My father still shivered.
On my Graduation Day, my family and his sat together applauding standing half up from their seats when my name was announced. I sent both the men of my life flying kisses from the stage, I was a bold girl. My father beamed and he blushed when his mother and his mother-in-law playfully hit him on his back.
And the day I got my first job, we drank up a bottle of wine. Without my father, without my mother, without his. Just us both. He opened a bottle of Vodka then, which gradually led to two more bottles which he almost gulped down, he drank with a glint of desperation. He stroked my face, pulled away the lose curl of hair behind my ear and muttered how long we'd come along. How my oval face was the noor of his life. How my Feminist side was sexy. How my hot-headed self made him laugh in adoration and bow down in respect to my opinionated personality. But he also told me how he needed some space, some time. How he was switching jobs to another country and that he was going to enter another lifestyle. How my father overwhelmed him. How my opinions clashed so much with his. How we wanted different things in life. How.... how it seemed like all the perfection in our lives led him to believe that there was some more life he needed to discover, and that he didn't want to stop just yet.
I asked him to take me along.
He said the imperfection would start with my absence.
And so, I gave it to him. I told him to go kiss the world and have all the imperfection in the world.
"So?" he said, almost like a gurgle, intoxicated by the next bottle of wine, "So will you be waiting for me to come back?"
I blinked at him; "What?"
He smirked; "I said, will you be waiting for me to come back? Waiting with your father?" -- I felt slapped.
He was nothing like my Father. He could never be. For he laughed at bonds and ties. He laughed at the honesty in them. He laughed at me. He always laughed in the inside, and held up a straight face on the outside.
When he was gone for good, I asked my father; "A neat boy?"
He smiled sadly; "He was a Vodka neat! Baah! I'd rather a man! A Whiskey Neat boy'eh!"
He could never be like my father.
Because my father could smile with sad eyes, and speak the truth. While he, he began with lies even with alcohol burning down his tongue.
(And hopefully with that, the Writer's Block spell is broken!) Awaiting your feedbacks as always,