Tun tun tuuuun... I imagine that this is the sound a xylophone makes when it's struck. At least that's the sound my two-year-old makes when he sees the xylophone in his letter book while imitating how it's played. Not sure where he saw it, but i'm glad he knows a musical instrument. His enthusiasm is partly what inspired this little stream of consciousness. 

I cannot tell you the first time I saw him. But I remember the first time we talked. I was on my way home for the weekend after a long week of missing lectures. I was seated on that kamiddle seat at the front, one where you have to keep adjusting your leg every time the driver shifts the gear.

I digress. 

He was a smooth talker because it wasn't a long chat, but it was long enough to make me smile. He was different. I didn't cringe at what he texted, mostly because he wasn't hitting on me like "the others." And he made me laugh. The genuine laugh that makes you look around to confirm that it wasn't as loud as it sounded.

When I pointed it out, he said, "I'm ninja like that." Of course he was. That's how he sneaked up on my tiny frail heart and played it like a xylophone. 

We never had an official date. Not even a first date. But we spent so much time together, it almost seemed we were bound on the hip. It helped that he was easy on the eyes. I imagined that ours was some sort of dalliance- nothing defined, nothing labelled, but the chemistry was there. Because I fell for him hard.

But this was a strange experience for me. I had been taught not to like boys because they could ruin my future. So I never made a move nor asked for anything more. The little non-sexual rendezvous we had were good enough for me. Even though part of me wanted more, whatever that entailed. 

We'd go for walks occasionally and he'd buy me soda. Cold, chilly soda. He knew that I loved Krest or Fanta Passion. And I loved that he knew my preferences. I can't even remember what we'd talk about during these walks. But I know that I enjoyed them. We'd have the not-so-random hand brushes that would melt my heart. And because he was a hugger, he's cologne would linger on long after he'd dropped me off at my place. 

(Can you feel me smiling stupidly at this nostalgic memory? Maybe I should take a little break before I tear the sides of my lips.)

Then there was that one night be needed a place to stay because he'd already cleared his hostel room. I obliged. There wasn't any funny business. We just cuddled and slept. I felt safe and perhaps in love. The whole experience felt surreal and conflicting. Here was a man who wasn't trying to get into my pants (yet?) and yet I'd been conditioned to believe all men were monsters. My brain couldn't fathom!

Before he left for home (we were going home for the long holidays), he brought me a large pack of tomato crisps. Tropical Heat. This man really knew the way to my heart.

And being me, I couldn't deal with the uncertainty. 

So, against my better judgment, I asked

What are we?

And he said the F-word. He called us "friends" and that he already had a girlfriend and wasn't looking for something new. 

Siri, play Kelly Rowland's part in How Deep Is Your Love: "I don' wanna be your homegirl, I don' wanna be your cool friend, I don' wanna be the chick that you call in the middle of the night to share your bed with..."

I had walked myself into a homegirl-cool friend-midnight chick status, unknowingly. But for some reason I couldn't hate him.  

After all, he was ninja like that and had played me like a xylophone.