An apology to my readers Sau Paulo has been written out of context.
Sau Paulo should be found at the final entry of My Parisian and the beginning of Luciano.
Sau Paulo had left my memory when I landed in Charlotte.
But how he entered and stayed for a night is unique. It argues the scientific belief that Life is predestined. That situations and people that bump into you, isn’t really a bump, but a predictable intersection. That all the men I have met were predictable. But here’s the bad news about predictability: It can only be seen in the past, or rather from the past. Predictability, by its nature, means a foreshadowing. But its evidence can only be seen yesterday.
Sau Paulo and I literally bumped into each other amidst a growing number of jolly Parisians! He didn’t actually bump into me, but literally stepped on me, or shall I say my foot, which caused him to tip like a freshly cut tree and smack dab onto my lap, my arms encircling him out of a muscle memory of protection of him.
And there, among a riot of reveling Parisians, Sau Paulo sat on my lap, my arms around him, surrendering the weight of his body and allowed it to fall against me, his head leaned back exposing his throat, and I there, in public and in Paris, planted the softest kiss on Sau Paulo’s throat. And he growled. And I planted another and another, and Sau Paulo arched his back, and I with my hand on his jaw, turned his face to mine, my lips next to his, and we kissed, once, lightly; but then twice, and the third pulled our growling from our throats.
And then dawn broke and we napped.
The last I saw of Sao Paulo was when he was tying his tie. He was standing in front of me, wearing only briefs, a shirt and tie.
“What’re you looking at handsome,” he asked.
“You; can’t I look at you?” I answered, leaning in closer.
“You looked at me all night, papi” he quipped.
“My eyes were closed half the time; so I’m making up the time,” I said kissing his thighs.
“American’s,” he said with a tone of exasperation, “Are always afraid that they’ll run out of beauty,” he said while pulling on his trousers, “so they gather as much as they can,” while buckling his belt and kissing me, “before it’s gone,” Then added, “Do you think we’ll never see each other again? In this wide world, do you think we’ll never cross paths, papi? Sau Paulo is only an airplane ride away.”
Even in that tango-infuse, Porteugesian-lilt, darkened voice, I knew Sau Paulo and I would never meet again.
And we hadn’t.
Until this morning when my What’s App application sounded, and their was Sau Paulo in Sau Paulo, dressed in short-sleeves and shorts, smiling in front of a Christmas tree. He wrote, “Merry Christmas, papi.”
Sau Paulo was right: Life is only a finite number of predestined intersections.
Merry Christmas, Everyone!