The Columbian

This weekend a little of my heart fell for the Columbian. The major problem with that is that my knowledge of Spanish is close to non-existent, yet I still speak more Spanish than the Columbian speaks English. I shook my head at him Friday night as I spoke to him in broken Spanlish, “How can you live in the States for over two years, and not speak more than two words of English?” He went on to tell me about his Spanish store, and how no Americans ever shop there, so there was never a need to learn English until he met me.

We made a promise to one another that night to learn each other’s language. We even pinky swore to make the pact even more binding, and the Columbian is really taking the process of getting to know one another very seriously, which is so refreshing after the complete lack of communication with the Neighbor. Although the Neighbor is still technically the man in my life, my mind and imagination have already left him after only two short weeks of being together. Now, in my fantasies, it is the Columbian that I see and it’s the Columbian who I imagine spending my future with. Part of me wonders if that qualifies as cheating, because I’m definitely bordering possession of cheating thoughts with the intention to act, which I’m sure add up to about two years of karmic imprisonment. However, the Columbian just may be worth the price.

His dancing is so unlike anyone else’s that it really caught me off guard at first. He doesn’t do many of the traditional turns and whirls, which I used to love so much, but his intricate footwork and sensual way of moving across the floor is enough to hold my attention for hours. I’ve even started to show preferential treatment to my Columbian, much to the chagrin of my former dance partners. For a full two hours, the Columbian was the only one that I wanted. I didn’t even have time to lust after M-BMW who made a surprise visit to Ibiza Friday night. The Columbian was enough for me and just standing next to him was more rewarding than all the empty smiles that M-BMW wasted on me. M-BMW’s fickle ways just can’t compare to the Columbian’s genuine smile. No one else is like him. No one has ever held me so close and made me feel so at peace in their arms. No one else can dance cheek to cheek with me and make me forget the hundreds of people who are staring at us with raised eyebrows. No one else can make me purr at the mere stroke of a shoulder blade. The Columbian is special, and I don’t need to understand his words to know that much to be true.