Tiny
hands on a Hard Ass (for the beginning to this story, click
here.)
The night has turned windy and I decide if we're going to Lario's
to dance I'll need my sweater. Tiny hands and I start walking toward
our hotel. And his hands feel permanently affixed to my ass, despite
my constant protests. "Seriously, tiny, stop touching me,"
I keep saying, and he babbles about being drunk and how that prevents
him from listening, apparently. I tell him I don't care. Lario's
is out of the question as he has become too drunk to function. Damn
those light and refreshing vodka tonics! Then he says to me, "You
got me drunk. You should expect this." My annoyance quickly
transforms to revulsion. What, is he a 19-year-old sorority girl?
I've matched him drink for drink.
Quick,
Shakira, think. Okay, we'll buy liquor. The people from the club
at the hotel will surely wander to our porch again, and as long
as I have people around, he won't be able to molest me. I drag
the Octopus into a liquor store. I'll put his drunk ass to bed
and party with some cool people. He's all over me—still.
"BACK the FUCK OFF," I snarl, as I'm purchasing a bottle
of vodka.
Back
in the room, he heads for the porch as I grab my sweater. He's
smoking a cigarette and apologizing for being so forward. "I
jus…I jus…needed a lil' nicotine," he slurs. I'm
sitting in the chair opposite him, longing to be on the crowded
dance floor. It's just…a few steps away…
"Yeah,
nicotine will fix your problem, all right," I spit.
"I
promise to stop hitting on you," he says, getting to his
feet and putting a hand on my shoulder.
"Yeah,
see, with that hand on my shoulder, you're already breaking a
rule," I tell him. "THE ONE THAT SAYS STOP TOUCHING
ME."
It
appears my party plan won't work, as I realize at some point I'll
have to sleep in the same bed with mr. handsy. I toy with the
idea of running off of the porch, finding a group of people and
hanging with them all night. But at some point I have to return
to this damn room—SECOND best hotel, mind you—who wouldn't
want to sleep there? Tiny hands is smoking another cigarette and
complimenting himself on ashing into the water bottle. Me, that's
who. I'm not sleeping there.
"I'm
not very comfortable here," I announce, standing up. "I
think it's time for me to go."
"Thas'
ridiculous," tiny hands exclaims, looking up at me and then
quickly back the cigarette to see if he's made the ash into the
bottle again. "Where you goin'?"
"Somewhere
else," I tell him and go quickly into the bathroom, gathering
shampoo, conditioner, makeup and toothbrush in an armful. I dump
them in my case while he struggles toward the bed.
"Awww,
come on," he mutters, patting the bed beside him. "We'll
jus' sleep. Really. No touching. Sleep nice."
"Nope.
Don't believe you," I respond, throwing clothes into my bag
at lightning speed. Freedom never seemed so sweet.
"Please?
Jus' siddown. Jus' sit and talk to me."
"I
don't think so," I reply, and hoist my bag to my shoulder.
"I'm outta here. Have a nice night!"
I
flee before he can stumble after me and grab yet another body
part with his tiny hands. In the lobby, I ask the desk clerk where
I can grab a room for the night; she directs me to a hotel down
the street. I walk through the streets of Miami with a duffel
bag over one shoulder, wondering what the hell he's doing now.
My cell phone rings. Oh. That's what he's doing.
I
check in, talk to Gigi and ignore the rest of his calls—forever.
P.S.
I find out later that tiny hands has accused me of stealing towels
and sleeping on the beach. Dude, I am not that lame.
-Shakira
02.14.03
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