Neymar and the Night

6 Aug

In some small way, flirting (coqueteo) extends the self into a space where all potential outcomes are entertained.  Even the impossible may be suspended there between lock-eyed strangers.  Neymar and Real Madrid have been ordering each other one Old Fashioned after another from opposite ends of the bar all night, but it seems like the Brazilian has been playing them for fools in the Bernabeú, or at least that’s how Marca is taking the very notion of Barça catching the eye of the Brazilian starlet.

Whimsical as a fairy, Mr. Mohawk is only just getting settled in his newly run bath water, and Maybe, Just Maybe he thinks he’d like to soak in his position of international drool elicitor for an evening.  Real must be quite naive to think he’s going to drop his early twenties on a longterm relationship with the world’s premier practitioner of the “Love-em-and-leave-em” strategy of signing big names.  Rather than sack up with Mr. He Likes Me, Neymar has set his eyes on the new set of pectorals that has entered the club.  It’s the overtly muscle-shirted Real Madrid versus the subtle Gin and Tonic-ness of Barça.

Real Muscle is immediately uncomfortable and watches their boy-turned-siren’s eyes flash a hello across the room.  He must have forgotten who bought his last drink.  The possibilities entertained fall as dreams waking to day for Real, but realizing his own muscle-shirted-ness may one day heal him.  Barça sidesteps passed the crowd, eyes narrowing.  He stands now before The Boy, buttressed by ex-girlfriends or never-quite-second-basers, and lets his presence alone do the talking.  “I am Barcelona,” he needs not voice.

In the bathroom later, the girls will warn him: he’s way too into himself.  You don’t want that kind of man.

It’s last call and The Boy cringes when he sees Lil’ Santos, still underage, peer through the blinds of the front window.  What to choose?  Nineteen years and a whole soul yet to lose.  Soon, all that’s left is the salvage title.


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