Burrito and Taco- A love Story

I totally overslept today. I am still feeling a bit under the weather. I’m not sick, I just have this fucking body that shuts down on me every so often. I have good days and I have bad ones. Today, as you may have guessed—beautiful, we’re on the same page.

I wanted to talk about relationships today. More specifically-BOYFRIENDS, significant others, lovers etc…Yesterday on my way home from City Hall, I caught a couple sitting at the window of a Chipotle monstrosity on the corner of Broadway and Belmont. I was on the bus at a red light in 3:00 pm traffic, so I watched them for at least a good seven minutes. They were a handsome couple, maybe late thirties, early forties. I figured they were a couple.

The distance from seat to seat made it seem so, but I swear anyone walking by for a moment would not know.

For the sake of description we will call one Burrito and the other Taco—in Homage to McDonalds and their fabulous Mexican representation. Burrito sits quietly on the right wearing a fancy red golf shirt and black jeans, his hair is darker and slicked back. His skin is luminous kind of like he just got some a chemical peel a couple of weeks ago. Taco is sitting on the left he is equally handsome, blonde beard and a buzz cut he rocks a black t-shirt and blue hoodie and he’s wearing a lighter wash pair of jeans, he too, has that fresh out of the doctor’s office look. Both wore impeccably gorgeous leather uppers.

It’s all in the shoes, the magic is in the shoes.

Needless to say they look like they have rocked out in their day, and with just a few more years shaved off of their worn faces you could tell they were ABSOLUTE knockouts!

They probably had these heated tumultuous late-night Rouses (British vernacular) in the apartment, pans flying, the cats, both hiding under their bed. And in the morning when he wakes up on the couch and the other is in the bathroom, he cries silently. There were probably some ridiculously drunken nights of sex, fumbling to get the door open as one coaxes his hips into the others and they both fall in their apartment ripping each others clothes off. Passion is what I’m trying to grasp for, they had to have had it at one point, or that awkward silence and uncomfortable gaze wouldn’t be there.

Anyway Burrito is looking out the window across the street at something while he takes an awkward bite out of his enormous burrito, juices escaping its back end. Taco, scratches his jock, looks at an ad on the bus that I had been staring at them from.

You know when you’re on the bus and people are staring at some new ad on its side, you have an uncanny feeling after a while that they are staring at you staring at them? Eyelines get blurred from the inside of a bus. But in this case, I’ll be safe in saying I was the only one staring at someone in this equation.

The couple never spoke. Taco took a bite into his ridiculously stupid flour shelled taco-whilst goo and such spewed from the back end of his meaty monstrosity (wow that sounds funny). Taco grabbed a napkin flinging one in Burrito’s direction without a word without a look, there was no malevolent intent involved, he just casually flung the two napkins apart so that one gently landed closer to Burrito. Taco wiped his face and fingers with his own, seconds later after another bite out of his ginormous meat roll, Burrito grabbed the napkin as if it had been there the whole time and cleaned the drippings off of his person, all the while still staring at something across the street.

As the bus finally gained some sizeable momentum, and Burrito and Taco became two distant reminders of what love inevitably becomes, I surmised I held no comfort in it. This shadow of what a relationship becomes. I take a true puerile stance on this particular subject since my experience is limited. And please fellow humans school me on this issue-Love.

I need to learn, I certainly need a pitched perspective that serves me some wisdom instead of idiotic notions that are not realistic and never will be. I understand that there is a certain comfort level that a relationship comes to and that the exchange of words invariably declines. But then why stay? Am I naïve to think that when all passion and fire is gone that it’s time to move on? I’m going to try that another way—

Am I naïve to think

when all passion and fire is gone

that it’s time to move on?

When I am in a relationship as soon as it looses its edge or excitement, I begin to suffer under a grand delusion that I am losing interest or he is or we are equally losing interest with one another at the same time in varying degrees. Either way, I sabotage myself and my relationships as I so posthumously have discovered.

Don’t get me wrong, I am fine with silence and blank gazes into nowhere, I can accept that but I reach a point where I feel he is tiring of me and now he’s looking at other people as potential mates he will leave me for. His proverbial fires are stirring for another adventure and his staying is only a passive effort on his part.

Or for whatever reason, I quickly tire of them and become excruciatingly aware that I have to get out of this relationship, because it is suffocating me. Yes, I think I am aware of the psychological implications of this type of behavior. I’m not in the mood to go there today, but, yes, I am aware.

Here’s another thing that I’ve also wondered. Have you ever mutually parted ways with your “beloved”, on generally good terms and in a way deified the relationship until an incident like Taco’s and Burrito’s stirs up some residual resentment? I was horrifyingly shocked to realize that I have been under some idiot’s spell. The relationship I have venerated for so long has been nothing but an illusion constructed by me attachments to needing to be wanted and loved.

Truth of the matter was—Although, we had great times, laughed, were at ease with one another, rested comfortably in each others soft spots, we were strangers. Whenever I wanted to have a true connection with him he was always closed off and aloof. He never told me he loved me in the light of day. And though we both had a mutual understanding of each others affections, the verbalization of these affections were truly one-sided.

His love was childish, I guess in retrospect so was mine, but his approach lacked character or forethought, once again, it was passive. His approach to sex—Please; adolescent at best. I guess that was okay for me at the time but as I grew leaps and bounds within our short-lived courtship, he remained passively the same. I think I have finally closed the chapter on this one, well, today I have.

I believe I have come to some very adult beliefs about that past relationship and my future ones, I now know more clearly what I want and definitely what I don’t. In the book Psychic Pathways, Sonia Choquette wrote a chapter on games that we play with ourselves to better sharpen our psychic abilities. She was in the same place that, I guess, everyone gets to when they want to find someone SPECIAL—(I don’t necessarily believe in marriage so I am not looking for marriage material, but I am searching for a compatible mate. Take it as it is or use the British vernacular)—what she did was write in explicit detail the kind of man that she would like to meet, that she will meet, she meditated on it and then put it away. I don’t remember the length of time it took for her to meet him, but she did meet him, a chance encounter among friends and later she married him. I did the same and about three weeks later, I met Wheat Toast (from the now de-funked relationship mentioned in my blog The Dilletante’s Ball). Too bad I wasn’t explicit enough, but when I went back and read what I had written I was pretty spot on in a lot of ways. If I find it I would LOVE to post it, the note was quite embarrassing and funny as hell. Anywho, I am going to play that game in an upcoming post, It’s what I do anyway…If I have dreams or wishes or goals I write them down, and I must say, customarily they come to pass.

I wish Burrito and Taco the best, I truly do. I still hope they have hot and torrid nights but if it ends up being quiet and drawn with the steely din of the el as their backdrop, I hope that the ghost of their passion still lingers, I hope that the cats lick Tacos finger unassumingly while Burrito’s head lies gently in his lap and the blue sheen of the television lulls them both to sleep at night. Maybe Burrito’s gaze was not uncomfortable, maybe it was his silence that screamed his love in pitch that can only be heard by the heart of the soul and maybe Taco’s silence was his hope to share another 20 years with his beloved.

That’s all I got.

~ by Timbre on March 13, 2008.