Blurry Moments

She held the ribbon tool in her hand. A thin film of sweat formed on her creased forehead. The spinning pot had a noticeable wobble, but she didn’t let it dictate how she trimmed. She kept a firm, steady hand on the grooves and shaped it as she desired. The churned out clay looked like ribbons of chocolate.

Her tongue occasionally caressed her lower lip. She’s so absorbed, I thought, as my mouth formed a sly grin. If only she paid more interest in her other spontaneous pursuits, she would have layers of personality that I would love to explore. Yes, I was there to see her, just like the seven pottery students standing in front of me.

However, I wasn't interested in learning the craft. It was supposed to be our fourth date. We had done coffee, a salsa dance class, and a museum visit, yet meeting her each time felt like going on a blind date. Like a choir conductor, she came up with the activities we would do, shooting down my suggestions with a twinkle in her eye. I tagged along as if I was under her spell.

Despite pottery not being on my list of interests, Marie held my attention. Perhaps my eyes were hypnotized by her hands as they shaped and reshaped the leather-hard clay or her sultry voice’s soothing commentary. At least it was much more refreshing than watching paint dry.

I’m not a woman magnet by any stretch of the imagination. Barely six-foot-tall, my awkward gait and demeanor tended to bar me from the world of the ideal Casanova. As a gamble in the game of life, I had tossed my shaver a few months earlier. My best friend saw me three weeks ago and certified that my beard had finally flourished. I realized I had transformed into a honey trap when my dating prospects improved sharply.

While the students roared when she was done, I pursed my lips and clapped slowly. I hoped she would notice my reaction, but she was basking in their adulation instead.  

When she had taken selfies with all of them, I walked up to her.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Marie stared at me with her glazed marble eyes, and I sank into another world. I craved drowning in it. At that moment, I forgot that she asked me to teach her how to swim and quit the classes two days later. Being stood up left a bad taste in my mouth, but that had suddenly disappeared.

“Do you want to cool off?” I asked.

“You know I do.” She nodded knowingly as if my question was inevitable.

Ten minutes later, our short stroll with ice cream in our hands ended at the busy street junction overlooking the bridge.

“See you at the pool?” I asked.

“No, no. I'm not going on a boat cruise anytime soon, so what's the point? We should go cycling this time.”

“Do you own a bike?”

"Nope, but I want to see what it's like. We can go to the park on our next date. You game?"

I wasn't game, but the words got stuck in my throat. I gave a thumbs-up instead. She disappeared into the swell of pedestrians, her lingering scent of fresh coconut remaining with me.

A week later we were at Boreh Park in the cool of the day. It was a quiet botanical garden with more trees and lonely trails than necessary, but the cycling trails were impressive. She wasn't skilled on a bike, so I spent the first hour teaching her how to pedal. She soon caught on.

We laughed, teased, and raced. She has the most infectious laugh that echoed through the whistling leaves around us. It could have been an enchanting dream if only our bicycles could fly to the clouds.

I wanted to kiss her that day. It felt so perfect. But the scorching sun quickly killed the thought. It would be strange to attempt such intimacy under the rising heat and waterfalls of sweat.

We managed two more cycling dates before she suddenly went quiet. Three weeks passed.

The most logical reason I came up with was that the traffic-ridden bridge had taken its toll on her. The city’s old district, where Marie lived, had a suspended bridge joining it to the newer district. The bridge that connected the two districts wasn't exactly famed for its smooth sailing qualities. You could spend two hours in traffic every day unless you traveled at night.

She considered the new district where I lived more adventurous than her side of the bridge. All the dates we had, including the pottery class, were held in my part of town.

When she called again, she didn’t want to talk about two-wheelers. She had discovered a different kind of cardio.  I found myself standing a hot dance studio for a bachata class with men in flowery silk shirts and women in leggings and heels. I wasn’t blessed with two left feet, having been a choreographer in my younger days. But I wasn't familiar with bachata.

We stepped on each other during the beginning of the session. Muscle memory ensured that I got the hang of it. We were soon absorbed in sensual gyrations that had our hormones raging. Looking into her eyes, I knew the sweat didn't matter this time. Lips locked and, for a moment, the noise around us became fog.

The slap felt hot. Unexpected. Yes. Undeserved? I'm unsure. I didn't use any tongue. She spun away, grabbed her bag, and marched out. I followed her, feeling strangers’ eyes judging me without context.  

I caught her before she jumped into a taxi. Thankfully, she didn’t hit me again. Instead, she sunk into a street bench and cried. We spent the next two hours on that bench. She didn't tell me what troubled her, even after I apologized. We agreed to dance again and create a new memory. I got her into a taxi and she left.

It’s been a month now since that conversation. We didn’t dance again. Instead, she's been sending me photos. She watched a wildlife documentary and got inspired to try travel photography. Curiously, the blurry images didn’t seem to discourage her from sharing. It was a fitting metaphor that she couldn’t figure out the focus ring on her camera.

I ignored them all until she sent photos from the cycling trail for two consecutive weeks. It was time to take out my cycling helmet for one more ride.