IThis December is so not going the way I wanted it to. Despite how I pride myself on not having any regrets at all, this month is making me go back and take another look at it. Do I really not regret anything? Not being honest with my first boyfriend about how much I always hated him? Or not spending enough time with my grandpa? Okay, okay I regret not taking up acting as a career.
I landed a part in my college’s annual play One Wife Too Many. I played Barbra, the hot, second wife. Damn, I should have really considered it. A hot shot producer would have spotted me, mesmerised by my onscreen beauty and talents. He would have pleaded me to do his plays and I would have graciously accepted. I would have been a fucking star by now. And it would have been me instead of Meher in Carl’s arms. Remember him? One of my many major crushes.
Yeah, yeah, I know he’s a guest and this is so inappropriate and unprofessional for me to have a crush on him.
He was to come last Friday and I was growing crazy with pre-arrival preparations. I arranged a bouquet of flowers for him, pleading the flower guy to put in extra roses because I remembered he liked them. I inspected his room like, a billion times to make sure we pampered him the best we could. Coffee in room? Check. Flowers? Check. Extra towels, fluffy cushions, nice warm blanket? Check. Check. Check.
Even our GM noticed the glow on my face when I talked about him. “He might be a bit late,” he began. “Oh, don’t worry. I have met him twice, I will receive him.” He gave me the eye. You know, like, oh-so-it’s-like-that-eye.
I missed my dinner because I couldn’t bare the thought of him not being welcomed warmly into the hotel. Little did I know he was doing to come two bloody hours after his flight landed. He was wearing maroon pants, a white shirt with a grey sweater, and a lovely black jacket. In his hand was a grey scarf, I had seen before. (Don’t be fooled: Karachi isn’t that cold, he was coming from Islamabad.)
It’s a miracle I maintained perfect composure when he entered the hotel and refrained from acting like a love-struck-saliva-drooling idiot.
“Where were you? I have been waiting for so long!“, is what I greeted him with. Hats off to my professionalism. But he was polite enough to be casual too.
He related how they had been a confusion and he wasn’t going to stay tonight, but instead check in tomorrow. He could have cancelled on phone but he wanted to apologize to my GM in person. Sweet AND sensitive. Hmm.
While we waited for his car to come, he introduced me to the middle aged guy with him who was also some hot-shot but I couldn’t be bothered. The conversation shifted to me being a student and he started asking me about my university, my aims yada yada I told him how I am planning on moving abroad.
“Pakistan needs smart, ambitious people like you.”
I opened my mouth to say something but just then his driver called to say that his car had arrived. There we go, I thought. I’m going to be left wondering what happens next.
He looked at me, he knew I wanted to say something. Then he said, “Um, can you walk me to my car?”
I would have walked him to his car if it was parked an hour from the hotel. It loved how he was making an effort to continue the conversation. A man with such good manners. *happy sigh*
“How do you know if I’m smart, ambitious?”
“I just know,” he shot me his smile, his amazing sweet smile. I keep thinking that jaw, the small stubble on it, how he always managed to look good, with or without beard. The conversation lasted a good fifteen minutes and I really didn’t want it to end. He was slightly all touchy touchy with me. It was a good sign! And then when we shook hands when I went back, his gazed lingered.
Don’t even ask me how I made myself wait a whole day before seeing him again. So many butterflies in my stomach, I thought I might puke. I went through the same routine again preparing for him, but as to not show any sign of desperation, I left out the flowers this time. When my GM jokingly asked, “Is your friend coming today?“, I couldn’t help but blushed like an idiot.
I missed receiving him at the main door, since I had spent an extra minute or two in the cafeteria getting my green tea. But I noticed his passport lying around on the reception and seized the opportunity to meet him in his room. The door to his room was already open, and I saw him from the back, leaning on the desk to sign his registration card. Even from the back, he was extremely handsome. I moved towards him and then stopped dead in my tracks. There was a girl. A girl. Sitting. On his chair. A girl. A fucking girl.
FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
I felt nauseous. I felt like I might faint. I felt like crying. I felt stupid. I felt what I was feeling was so lame. I said my little hi-hello because it was really too late to run away crying. It was not too late to go into the locker room, start crying like a maniac and hoping to get swallowed by the earth.
I have been disappointed a few times and this definitely falls in the top ten lists. And I was surprised too. I didn’t even like him that much. At least, I didn’t know I liked him that much before i saw him with someone else. He then asked me to come up to his room because his suitcase had broken it’s zip and I offered to get it fixed.
“Shall I come up now?” Images of them playing around in only knickers ran through my mind. I wasn’t prepared to see them doing anything kinky yet.
“Sure!” I loved that I was able to help him but when I was taking his suitcase down I felt like that’s who I was to him. The girl who fixed the zipper on his suitcase.
The girl he was with is an actress. She’s an actress! A bloody actress! Not as famous as Cameron Diaz but I have seen her on TV. She’s sort of a celebrity. And he’s pretty VIP too. Sounds like a perfect match. There’s no space for me there. I’m just the girl who fixed his zipper.
Damn, I should have taken up acting.
P.S If you guys want to see how they both look like, let me know. I think it’s wrong to put their pictures in this post without asking them but I can totally mail them to you. Think of it as a different way of stalking.