Whereas I would have liked to follow him out of a curiosity that was more than just a passing interest, I hesitated, thought that this party and Tashkent, was small enough for that matter,that we would run into each other again, that I'd have many other opportunities to cast glances, make eye contact, before moving in for an introduction, maybe more. I also did feel a little self conscious at how strange or perverted I might seem, wandering around the house on my own while a party was going on, poking at the doors, or this door in particular, which was a bathroom door -- without any intention to use the bathroom. Or even seeming like I was stalking this guy who I had just seen for the very first time. I could easily save face in front of him with the excuse that I was just waiting to use the bathroom.

I went in to this palatial bathroom with eggshell colored marble floors, the stainless steel toilet, the bidet besides it, and in the corner, a jacuzzi that could comfortably fit two. I paced around the room, wondering who the stranger was; the Tashkent expatriate crowd generally was older and not a particularly attractive bunch. The appearance of this man, I felt, had introduced some intrigue to my slow-paced and uneventful life. No matter how minute his appearance was, it was some relief to a boredom that I felt setting on. Not an unpleasant or unfamiliar boredom, but that calming boredom that I attributed to living in what felt like a really small town. I unthinkingly switched on the bidet, curious, like most Americans unfamiliar with its function and operation. The water rushed out, ricocheting against the bowl and onto the upper part of my trousers. I quickly shut it off, grabbed a handtowel to wipe down my damp trousers, which helped little, and searched for a hairdryer in the cabinet under the sink. There as none, but I determined to either spend the night in the bathroom until it dried, or to walk out with a big wet stain. I thought about slipping out of the party and heading home.

I stole through the the hallway, past the parlour, and took a quick peek in. Henrietta caught me walking past and waved her hand beckoning me to come over to her talking to the economist. I mouthed out "I'm leaving," wishing that she would join me, wishing we could go away somewhere privately to talk, not about anything in particular, maybe just to complain, or make each other laugh, but she mimed holding a receiver to her ear and mouthed "phone me."

"You're not leaving, are you?" From behind me someone asked. It was Alyssa, catching me before I could turn away. "I heard you were here, but didn't see you. I wanted to introduce you to my new friend," she said, taking my hand, drawing me over to a circle of people. I looked down at my pants and the wet stain, which though still noticeable had dried considerably -- I forgot how quickly things dried in Tashkent's desert climate, self-consciously holding my backpack in front of it, as if to hide it.

"Did you try to switch on the bidet?" She chuckled pleasantly, looking down at my pants, "that happens to everyone." She had lead me right to the handsome man who had come out of the bathroom. "This is my new friend, Jason," she said, and I noticed that she had kept calling him her "new friend" and I wondered what that meant, was he new in town, or a new acquaintance; it didn't seem likely that he was a new boyfriend as I quickly registered him as gay. She was interrupting a lively conversation and I wondered if we were being set up. It was one of those typical kindnesses I had known of straight people that they usually only knew one or two gay people and always assumed that they needed to be fixed up with each other, since the proverbial other gay friend was single, had so much in common with you (which was rarely the case), was attractive (even rarer). But in this case, I was actually pleased by this tendency. And I liked the way Alyssa quickly disappeared after making the introduction. She was nowhere to be seen.

He looked up, smiling sheepishly and resignedly. He was clearly engaged in a conversation and I looked like I was leaving. I thought to myself that I should play it cool, not seem too eager to meet him, continue to behave as though I was on my way out as much as I would like to stick around, and was dragged over to him by Alyssa, all of which were the case. "I'm on my way out, but I'm sure I'll see you around," I said. Tashkent was a small town, especially in the expatriate circles. We were bound to run into each other again.

"Nice to meet you," I said. "I hope to see you around." I most likely would. Tashkent was a small town. And I headed to the front door feeling a little excited about whatever possibilities lay ahead, but feeling that there were some possibilities.  ¶ 9:19 AM 1 Comments