Prismatic

You have three photos up your profile. It said that you went to a nearby college, but looking from your age it's almost cynical to think that you're still a student. Twenty-seven is an interesting age, if you add them you'd get 9. The epitome of decimal numbering system, not that it adds anything to an already exquisite profile.

In the first photo, you're in front of that endless gate that people are posing at. Ubiquitously pervasive background that's getting a bit tiring. Not that I have been there. It's just I've seen it a little too much that I expected from a supposedly diverse pool of including-myself-lonely bachelors. Good thing that you have this striking pose, and I must admit, a striking appearance, too.

Your hair is modernly vintage. I know you'd style it that way. A sense of fake nostalgia, almost hipster-y. But it's okay, it's fine actually. You pick on a matching nuance of clothing items. Earthy t-shirt and pants and of course an autumn jacket with fake furs to compensate the season. With your chin up and peace sign that you made, styled to be such as a mock to the genre of pose. A satire to a photographic phenomenon.

I scroll sidewise to reveal your second look. This time you grow a significant lot of beard, from a hint of moustache that you had earlier. It's a portrait, a very well done one. The background is iridescent blurred sky. I can see tints of clouds, several of them are scattered through the myopic atmosphere. You don't pose anything fancy, you just look away from the camera. It's of course not a candid, you're just good at not engaging. Your tanktop, a little bit oversized, is trapped while waving in the moment.

You wear the hat, I guess to give your eyes a bit of a shade. I can tell it's radiating hot where you went. Dark brown eyes that you have. they look to the left. Peeking behind your glasses atop your nose. A nose known to be an identifier feature of your supposed ethnicity. I like the shape of it, makes me tingle somewhere below my chest. And your lips-they're breathtaking. Divine-shaped. A spectacle. It's the lips of the lifetime. You realize that you have good genes and you're taking a heck of a visual advantage of it.

Your last photo takes quite a turn. It's a bathroom selfie, but it feels off. It's dark although the interior seems to be dominated by bright ceramic tiles. Maybe it's the lamp. You look darker, mysterious, with your shorter hair, shorter beard, and a more gloomy wardrobe. Stubbles are barely visible but, it's there among the grain from your camera. You don't really smile, like in two previous photo. It seems as if you're trying to act displeased. Saying "Happy? In this economy?" through your visage.

I come off distrustful, and expect to remain that way until, I don't know. Maybe until you prove you're a prismatic irreversible thing that ever happens to me.

Enigmatic, intimidating indeed. You're a specific kind of guy who knows exactly what you want. You want not only a match, not even a date. An experience - no, an episode that you'd reminisce later. Someone to shake off your realm. A hero to save the day. A vigilante to break down your authority. A villain to remember on your epoch of victory. Not to mention a prismatic one, the one who's gonna lit your nights and guide you to your climax and who makes you feel dizzy, a good kind of it, even when you're closing your eyes.

Nothing else are left for me to read except an anthem that you choose carefully to express who you are. It's Katy Song by Red House Painters. A quick tap and a few strokes away I'm listening to it while reading its lyrics. The song is sad, and a glimpse of you are heard through the verses. I can tell why you're distrustful because you don't want to be seem as the weak one. You've been hurt and you just can't afford to play any other heartbreaking game. You'd play this song to watch those episodes in your head, prismatic episodes that hurt you the most. The ones you're at fault.I'm eager to swipe you right at the moment. But I won't let my impulse take over me.

It's summer when we have our first date. You come a bit late, drenched in sweat after running. Your excuse is plausible, running errand for your inexplicable mother. I already ordered a sizable amount of tea. Somewhat I knew that you are going to be late. You say you're sorry and being a sinner myself what can I be but a forgiving stranger. I ask what I can get you since it's a self-service cafe, and you go straight to our seat. Unsure and exhausted from the earlier sprint, I offer you to take their specialty. A sense of distrust is emitting, but you nod in your fatigue and I go to the counter to order for you.

The previous exchange is super quick that I have no recollection of recognizing your face. Is it the same as in the photographs you put in your profile? When I get back to our table you are wiping your glasses and your face alternately. All your features are even better in person. Although you do look tired, it doesn't take away any inch of your attractiveness. You're a good looking guy indeed. You thank me when our eyes meet, smiling halfway through and starting the conversation.

Flashes of your episodes are incredibly transparent, influential to your demeanor. You carefully styled your words to be almost dull to bait. Yeah, you are one giant mess of a hook. Playing along, I mask my otherwise uninteresting personality in a dazzlingly blinding tone. It is not fake in any way, anti-chaotic is a better terminology. The pressure is virtually atmospheric, we both are just adamant to admit it. But at the end of the date, we agree on our second term.

We go to the bar and drink a hell lot of booze, or it may be just you because I carry you on my shoulder when all you do is vomiting your gut and your deep buried leftover of your episodes. We go to the zoo and awe at the marvel of nature, forgetting our responsibilities. We even go to the beach near your grandmother's villa to feel the cold air of sea breeze. Inseparable is hyperbolic, but at least we band together. It seems beautiful until you find out that I am indeed reversible.

It bothers me how you are desperate to make things right when you are a part of the bigger problem that causes them in the first place. You can't acknowledge your privileges. Funny excuses you throw to justify your puzzling behavior, I don't even try to care. Your words are drenched in your past, nastily wet, full of dead episodes of your own. It reeks of superiority complex, egocentrism, your skewed view of the world that rages as if it tries to sabotage your glory.

I fade out of our tryst as often as your sigh for small nuisance. My heart, full of agony is a counter to your selfless-wanna-be. I try to understand but it is nowhere in my genes a 'saint', 'knight', or a 'gentleman'. I am a coward indeed. My fear resonates through my actions and it becomes hurtful. Vengeful. Evil, perhaps. You sound and look disgusted at my resolution. Before we even know that it can start a monumental dynamics, we part ways. You walk to your prismatic problematic hypocritical realm. I leave towards my dull lackluster cynical stage of my life.

That's how it plays in my head. Convincing enough to swipe you left.