"Ooh, I ruined your mascara..."
Actually, it was my eyeliner, because I don't wear mascara. Don't have one, don't think I need it. But I just nodded, I don't want to correct you. I was in awe with the way you tried to sound sorry for ruining my make up. It was almost like you were gloating, did I also detect a tinge of pride in your tone? I wondered if you knew you could've ruined more than just my make up that night, if I had let you. I would have. But I was scared.
Then again, maybe I am imagining all these. Maybe you were sorry. Somehow, that makes it even more endearing. You silly man, I was willing. I had wanted to. The moment you turned to face me and I realised how you towered over me, something just stirred within. I needed you to know what I'm made of. I needed to show you.
But really, this is not about what I let you do. This is about how you made me feel that night. You spoke very little, I've always known you as a man of few words, but when you speak, it was about me. It occured to me, that in your silence, you were observing me. My every move, my every gesture. You made me feel noticed, you made me feel like I'm worth looking at.
And so when you opened your mouth, I listened. I wanted to know what else about me fascinated you. I wanted to know that you fancied me and felt fancied I did. I have tried, ever since that night, to spin and yarn words, to make you feel like I did. I tried to match my words with yours, to tell you I noticed you too and I liked what I saw. I fancied you. But...
How is it that I am easily won with your words, but I, the poet, fail to win you with mine? I guess, that is another story for me to write, another day.
Fazleena Latiff.
11 August 2016
