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I am so good at screwing things up.

I told him that once, during a late night on the first of the year. I should have expounded but I’m not used to staying up awake past eleven. And the fact that I was holding onto that tall table, trying to stay seated on my little stool, ignoring my sleepiness, was enough testament that I wanted to be there.

“I’m so good at screwing,” I shake my head, bobbing my glass of vodka sprite up and down, daring it until it splashes. When what I said clicked in, I looked up, eyes wide and saw the mischievous glint in his eyes.

He smirked. Two months of doing this and he was still new to me. I inspected him with care and watched him to see how his face changes in different places.

He looked good in the interchanging color of lights, the pulsing beat and background of blackness. He was just the type that could make these elements work without trying. I was the polar opposite of making it work. With a face covered with makeup, hoping the heat won’t melt through it into splotches of flesh-colored dirt, I tried to keep it together.

“That’s why I like you so much, baby girl,” he says playfully, his deep voice only loud enough to be understood through the house music.

I was swaying in my seat, suddenly feeling emotional and wistful. I had thought of speaking up, to ask if he had the same reservations I did when we were in bed. That I still felt that hesitation, because I didn’t know where we stood.

He didn’t read through me but I think he saw through my struggle to keep seated. He stood away from his stool and walked the small distance to hold me by my elbows. He helped me down the tall stool and muttered something sweet, endearing, like “my little sweetheart” but I couldn’t tell for sure because the alcohol was coursing through and numbing my everything.

I don’t know how I managed it, but we had walked to the exit, got his car from the valet. When I had more grip on my sensations, I felt his arm brush my chest briefly, reaching for my seat belt. He tugged and clicked it into place for my safety. He drove while I hazily looked at the passing scenery of cars, lamp lights and blinking buildings of green and red.

The car park was a lot near his condo. His condo was the only tall building on a suburb that was on the verge of change. He was probably half-carrying me at this point and I was echoing his words by stringing it into song. He finally stopped trying to talk to me at one point.

We were walking on an empty street with the clear view of the sky, tall buildings far away were hidden just enough by two-floor homes. He paused and so did I because his arm hugged at my ribs, keeping me upright. He was looking for something, squinting as he searched.

We heard the distinct sound of a firework shooting up. Sure enough, in the darkness of the sky, a flicker of green light exploded into tiers of sparks. We paused, awed. More flickers jumped, bouncing to the sky and exploding into beautiful designs. I knew then that I would never get sick of it, fireworks. No matter how many New Years I go through, there would always be something special with sparks in the skies. No matter how many times I fall through, I would always be searching for that spark. Or I had hoped I would.

That moment, lone in the street, he and I were privy to what felt like a private show, just for us. I knew it was meant for us, because a moment too soon or a moment too late, we wouldn’t have been able to see it.

I suddenly had full control of my sensations, and though my body felt like it was swimming in alcohol, I had lucid thoughts. I wished, on the night of January the first, that like those fireworks meant for us, we were meant to be.

And just as I had wished it, I turned to him and he was already looking at me. I have never felt more beautiful and more wanted.

“And I saw sparks,” I sang briefly. Then, most soberly, “Happy new year,” I felt compelled to say. He didn’t speak. He was too busy looking at me.

My eyes were already half-lidded when he dipped his head and kissed me. I shifted my body to press myself completely onto him, holding him, willing to snuff every little bubble of air that kept us from fully connecting.

I could stay like this, I told myself, the hope rising in my chest. I could stay like this for as much as you would let me. And I did something I have not dared to do in a very long time.

I thought of a future with a man and admitted that this time, I could fall in love. I could love him.

He was a good kisser and he held me so tenderly, that I didn’t see it coming. He pulled away from my lips to smile, breathless. “Let’s go so you can show me just how good you are at screwing.”

As quickly as he had inspired warm sentiments, he had dashed it away with his want. He was no longer looking me in the eyes. His gaze was focused on my chest and he pulled me closer to see my breasts heave higher, looking fuller pressed on his chest.

With a long swallow, he reached a finger to trace my cleavage and pulled his hand away as if burned. With mouth closed, he uttered a mixture of a grumble and a groan. His lips were pursed. His eyes were unfocused now while mine were focused on him.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, trying to sound calm.

I nodded my head, forcing myself to shove down my disappointment. I let him guide me, trying not to think of when I had let things change. Just a moment ago, I had felt the spark and now I was confused how he couldn’t have felt the same.

Had I waited too long? Was I too guarded and never let him in? Was this my fault? Was this a long time coming that has crept on me? Should I truly decide to settle for a little warmth without the whole experience of love?

He led me with his arm around my back, and I clung to him, my body still heavy from drinking.

We were on bed when I tuned back in again. He was naked and we were ready, under the covers. I looked up at him, willing for the moments a while ago to be a mistake, to see care and tenderness where it truly wasn’t.

He was kissing me so intimately so I closed my eyes, letting him take me. I was inside my head.

I resolved, this time not to weave fantasies of what this is. Not to entertain hope lest it be dashed too late. To suppress visualizing the future with a man who does not have the potential to love me.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, breaking through my train of thought. I opened my eyes and tears escaped and slid down my cheeks. Worriedly, he brushed it away, but stayed inside of me.

I shook my head and pulled him for a kiss.

I will kiss you, yes, I thought. I will kiss you over and over without expecting this will be forever.

I opened my eyes again and wanting more than a kiss, his jaw clenched as he got ready to move again. His forearms braced on each side of me, he reached for a lock of my hair that brushed the back of his hand.

“Let me see you,” he murmured, rising to let me shift up and to slide his hand to mine. He wanted to hold hands but I didn’t let him. I braced myself up by holding onto his broad shoulders. He let his hand drop down to hold me by my waist. I tilted my face up to his and, almost primly, pressed my closed lips to his. Hungrily, he reached out to kiss me more.

There were no promises in our kisses. For once, I felt it purely and let myself sink into what for once, I understood completely. I knew where we stood.

For once, I truly enjoyed it.

by Guia Galvez