Jessai Flores

For the first time in my life, I could say that I was in a relationship. I — yes, me. I had a girlfriend. Not a girl friend. I had a girlfriend, right before the summer began.

Well, sort of.

I had a girlfriend for 15 minutes. House in the middle of Guilford, Connecticut. NYU short film. I found myself on set, as a PA, listening to the producer’s instructions. Our conversation went silent when we noticed the director looking at us — awkwardly. He saw something. So, he asked:

“Would you be open to playing girlfriends as background extras?”

I got nervous. I looked at her with made-up doubt. I wanted to do it; I just didn’t want it to look that way. She was in. She looked at me, inspecting me. As if asking herself if this would actually work outside of fiction. I just wanted to play the part. Experience it. Be part of the magic.

At least once.

I’ve always experienced love like Smash Mouth at the end of “Shrek.” I’ve always thought “love was always true in fairy tales.” I’ve always looked from afar, through novels and movies and shows and my friends’ relationships, my friends’ experiences, my parents’ love for each other and everything in between. I study literature and film to understand the human condition, but I have always lived it all separately from myself. I have experienced it all by looking in from the outside. I have always been a perceiver of beauty, looking for it in what I consume every day. That was, until this summer, when I became the perceived.

The first time it happened was on my morning run. I was running past McDonald’s, past elders’ homes, accelerating to make up for all the walking I had been doing before, when suddenly, a car stopped in front of me. Loose sporty T-shirt, brown hair, sunglasses. A guy in his late 20s got out of the car. Perfect! He’s going to ask me for directions and I don’t even know where I am. He started looking at me, staring. I waited. He looked me up and down.

“Yes?” I lowered the volume of my music. 

“I’m sorry, but you’re so cute. I just had to stop,” he said fast.

What? My expression changed. I didn’t see that coming. I felt like a character in a short film again, pretending to be a girlfriend. Pretending to be an attractive girl in a movie. What would the protagonist say next? Did I like him? How could I know so fast? How did he know? I didn’t feel butterflies, or a sign, or any magic. I didn’t feel anything. I just wanted to scream “line?!” so someone would remind me.

“Thank you, but I’m sorry, I’m not looking right now!” I said, while pausing “Daddy Cool” by Boney M. The song I chose before I knew this would ever happen. I wish I could go back and change it.

My words felt right when I said them, though. This is what I would write as dialogue for a character like me. While blushing, he introduced himself as Oscar. He kindly encouraged me to let him join me on my next morning run. Next thing I know, the song is about to end and I am running out of there. He got into his car and left. He went on about his day, as I did. I found myself picking up my previous pace, feeling my skin burn under the sun of West Covina, California. I made my way back to my home for the month: an Airbnb, where Chinese was the only language spoken and where any of my movements were too loud. After taking my shoes off to find some water in the kitchen, I rushed — as quietly as possible — to the bathroom. Locked myself inside. A mirror. Everything was the same. I was the same. Wasn’t I? I started examining my face, every single part of it. Then, I stood up on the bathtub, positioning my phone just right to use it as a mirror. I looked at myself up and down.

“I love how I look. I always had,” I said to that version of myself.

Well, perhaps more now than before. This was just the beginning.

…

Another night, I went to a Latino club. By myself. I put on a black top, jeans, my black thrifted Converse — hid my key in my pants and left. I felt free, running through the streets to get away from roaches, screaming not to be surprised by anyone around me, riding the bus. Thinking. Looking out the window. 

I didn’t know what to do at first. I’m here in a club, a nightclub. It’s 11 p.m. I’ve never been to a club before. I had never had to show my ID to enter a place. But, the moment I heard the music, everything made sense. It all clicked. I started dancing. I must say that I don’t know how to dance. I just do it, led by the music. But tonight, all the Reggaetón I don’t listen to moves me. The lyrics come to me and I realize I know them by heart. So, I sing and jump and dance and make friends. Friends who may never recognize me in daylight. But, I feel part of something. The night goes on like this; strangers’ beer spilling on my top, taller people stepping on my shoes, escaping to the bathroom to take a break. Everything makes sense until my “friends” are nowhere to be found when coming back from the bathroom. They had said we need to go out again. I don’t know if it was true, but all the emotions felt mutual right there. Now, people are leaving. It’s 1 a.m. Should I leave?

I start walking out to the patio while contemplating my next move. 10,000 steps. My watch congratulates me for being so active, just during the past hour. As I am looking down at my watch, the vibe changes. Bachata fills the dance floor. Everyone pairs up. I’m under the moon, under the stars. There is a chair a few steps in front of me. I start walking towards it, when—

Everything stops. Someone taps my shoulder, making me turn. I’m startled. I turn. I lock eyes with a stranger. A stranger who looks me up and down, just like that guy the other day. He offers me his hand.

“Wanna dance?” He has an accent. I look down at his hand, frozen. “English or Spanish?” He asks.

“Español,” I say. Still looking at his hand. “No sé bailar,” I say. I don’t know how to dance.

“Yo te enseño. Me llamo César,” he insists he’ll teach me. He’s Brazilian.

“Obrigado,” I mutter. Proud. He laughs. I take his hand.

César is sweet and patient. “Propuesta Indecente” by Romeo Santos plays, and I don’t know how to move. He talks me through the steps, asking me if I feel comfortable. Asking if he can put his hand on my waist, asking me if he can turn me around. I turn him around, too. He laughs, saying no one had done that to him before. Before realizing it, we are floating. Our bodies become one and the music moves me — and him. 

For the first time in my life, I connect with someone physically. Our steps synchronize. I want this moment to never leave me. I want to stay here forever. As our moment comes to an end, César wants to see me again. For dinner. We exchange Instagram usernames. However, I know it’s finite. The connection ends here.

…

Now, sometimes when I go out, I wonder. I wonder if someone will approach me. I don’t think it’s because I would like to go out with them, like that wasn’t the case with César. I just crave the sensation I felt this summer. The sensation of being noticed and desired, one I had never experienced before. Of course, it would be impossible to say no one had perceived me before, but for the first time, it felt different and clear to me.

And, I often think back to those 15 minutes of couple-pretend. When this beautiful girl of brown eyes pretended to be infatuated with me for a short film. I think the way I felt at that moment is the way I always feel with people.

I experience physical connection outside my body: observing everything, and trying to figure out what my next line should be. That night with César, it was the first time in my life when I did not feel outside of my body.