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MidReal 故事
A Summer in Vallarta
设定:You travel to Mexico to give a conference. You are a 40-year-old French politician, after finishing your work you go to a nearby cafe. When you see a 19-year-old boy who enters, he has black hair, brown eyes, perfect white skin, lots of necklaces, innocent and ethereal style. You fall in love with him.
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Isabelle Laurent
Pierre's colleague and confidante, supportive of Pierre's feelings, stylish with short blonde hair.
Carlos Ramirez
local boy, object of Pierre's affection, young with black hair and brown eyes, innocent and ethereal.
Pierre Dupont
French politician, in love with the boy, middleaged with greying hair, charismatic and introspective.
I order my café au lait in mangled but passable Spanish and take a seat at a small table by the window.
The café is one of the few places open in the small town, and it's a hub of activity for the locals who live near the square.
I watch them coming and going, greeting each other with smiles and kisses as they go about their daily business.
It's all very quaint, very picturesque, and I wonder idly what it would be like to live here.
Probably boring as hell, I decide, but then a boy walks in and my attention is riveted.
He has black hair, brown eyes, and tan skin.
He's wearing a bright blue shirt unbuttoned over a white T-shirt and jeans.
When he smiles as he greets the barista, my heart skips a beat.
I'm not sure how long I sit there, staring at him as he waits for his coffee, but when he turns to take a seat at a table across the room from me, I snap out of it and glance down at my own coffee in sudden panic.
Shit.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on my coffee, but my eyes keep drifting back to him.
He's sitting alone, scrolling through his phone with a casual grace that seems almost otherworldly.
I can't help but wonder what he's reading, what kind of music he likes, what his voice sounds like when he's not just exchanging pleasantries with the barista.
The café door chimes as more customers come in, but I barely notice.
All I can see is him.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
This is ridiculous.
I'm a grown man, a politician for God's sake, and here I am acting like a lovesick teenager.
But there's something about him that I can't ignore.
Maybe it's the way he seems so at ease in this small town, so different from the hustle and bustle of Parisian life.
Or maybe it's just that smile.
I glance around the café, looking for an excuse to approach him.
My eyes land on the pastry display near the counter.
Perfect.
I stand up and make my way over, pretending to deliberate between a croissant and a pain au chocolat while sneaking glances in his direction.
Finally, I muster up the courage to speak.
"Excuse me," I say, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears. "Do you know if the pastries here are any good?"
He looks up from his phone, surprised but not unfriendly.
"I think so," he replies in lightly accented English. "I've only tried the conchas though."
His voice is soft and melodic, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
"Conchas?" I repeat, trying to keep the conversation going. "What are those?"
He smiles again, and this time it's directed at me. "They're sweet bread rolls. Very popular here."
"Ah," I say, nodding. "I'll have to try one then."
I order a concha from the barista and take it back to my table, feeling absurdly pleased with myself for having spoken to him.
As I sit down, I notice that he's watching me now, curiosity evident in his eyes.
I take a bite of the concha and make a show of savoring it. "Delicious," I say loudly enough for him to hear.
He chuckles softly and returns to his phone, but not before giving me another one of those heart-stopping smiles.
For the next half hour, we exchange occasional glances and smiles across the room.
It's like we're playing some sort of unspoken game, each of us testing the waters without diving in completely.
Finally, he stands up and makes his way over to my table.
"Mind if I join you?" he asks.
"Not at all," I reply quickly, trying not to sound too eager.
He sits down across from me and extends his hand. "I'm Carlos."
"Pierre," I say, shaking his hand firmly.
"So what brings you to our little town?" he asks.
"I'm here for a conference," I explain. "But I'm done with work now. Just exploring a bit before heading back home."
"And where's home?"
"Paris," I say with a hint of pride.
His eyes widen slightly. "Wow. That must be amazing."
"It has its moments," I admit. "But sometimes it's nice to get away from it all."
"I can imagine," he says wistfully. "I've always wanted to travel."
"Maybe someday you will," I say encouragingly.
We fall into easy conversation after that, talking about everything from our favorite foods to our dreams for the future.
Time seems to fly by as we chat and laugh together like old friends.
Carlos is a student of international relations, has the appearance quite innocent as a young child
Carlos glances around and then back at me. "Looks like they're closing up."
I nod, feeling a pang of disappointment. "Yeah, I guess so."
He stands up and stretches, his shirt lifting slightly to reveal a sliver of tan skin. "Do you want to go for a walk? The night is still young."
His suggestion catches me off guard, but I quickly recover. "I'd love that."
We step out into the cool night air, the town square now quieter but still charming under the soft glow of street lamps. The cobblestone streets are slick from a recent rain, reflecting the lights in a shimmering mosaic.
"So, where should we go?" Carlos asks, looking around.
"Let's just wander," I suggest. "See where the night takes us."
We stroll through the narrow streets, passing by colorful buildings with wrought-iron balconies adorned with potted plants. The scent of blooming flowers mingles with the distant aroma of street food.
Carlos points to a mural on one of the walls. "That was painted by a local artist. It tells the story of our town's history."
I stop to admire it, taking in the vibrant colors and intricate details. "It's beautiful."
He smiles proudly. "This town may be small, but it's full of life and culture."
As we continue walking, we pass by a group of musicians playing traditional Mexican music. The lively tunes fill the air, and I can't help but tap my foot to the rhythm.
Carlos notices and grins. "Do you dance?"
"Not well," I admit with a laugh.
"Come on," he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the musicians. "Let's give it a try."
Before I can protest, we're dancing in the middle of the street, surrounded by music and laughter. Carlos moves with an effortless grace, guiding me through the steps with ease.
I stumble a few times but soon find myself getting into the rhythm. We twirl and spin under the stars, our laughter blending with the music.
When the song ends, we're both breathless and smiling. Carlos squeezes my hand before letting go. "See? Not so bad."
"You're a good teacher," I say, still catching my breath.
We continue our walk, eventually finding ourselves at a small park with a fountain in the center. The water sparkles under the moonlight, creating a serene atmosphere.
Carlos sits on a bench and gestures for me to join him. "This is one of my favorite spots in town."
I sit down beside him, feeling a sense of contentment wash over me. "It's lovely."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the gentle sound of the fountain and watching fireflies dance in the air.
Eventually, I glance at my watch and realize how late it's gotten. "I should probably head back to my hotel soon."
Carlos looks disappointed but nods understandingly. "Of course."
I hesitate for a moment before speaking again. "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"
His face lights up with a smile. "I'd love that."
We exchange phone numbers and make plans for tomorrow evening before standing up from the bench.
As we walk back towards my hotel, I can't help but feel grateful for this unexpected connection. The night has been magical, and I'm already looking forward to seeing Carlos again.
When we reach my hotel, we pause at the entrance.
"Thank you for tonight," I say sincerely.
"Thank you," he replies with a warm smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."
With one last smile, he turns and walks away into the night.
I watch him go before heading inside the hotel.
As I walk to my room, my heart is still racing from the events of the evening.
I've never felt this way about someone before, and it's exhilarating but also a bit disorienting.
I've always been focused on my career, and I'm not sure how to balance that with this new feeling.
When I reach my room, I take a deep breath and try to calm down.
I'm being ridiculous, I tell myself.
It's just a crush.
But as I change into a pair of pajamas and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and can't help but smile.
Maybe it's not just a crush.
Maybe it's something more.
The thought sends another thrill through me, and I hurry through my bedtime routine so I can climb into bed and daydream about Carlos.
Just as I'm drifting off to sleep, my phone buzzes on the bedside table.
I roll over and glance at it, wondering who could be contacting me at such a late hour.
When I see Isabelle's name flashing on the screen, my heart skips a beat.
I answer the call, trying to sound more awake than I feel.
"Pierre," Isabelle's voice is urgent, almost breathless. "There's something you need to know about Carlos."
I sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake. "What is it?"
