The Love of the Poet
Episode 2 'The Poet's Love'
Second Part
The Love of the Poet
Through Facebook inbok, he questioned it. And he, I think, is like any young man, trying to give a positive image when he first introduces himself.
My welcome is still flat. And when he asked me my name, I didn't want to lie to him. "Call me Naina! Don't ask me my name, because it's gonna blow your head" I said lightly.
Well, Naina, that's a beautiful name. I liked. You're a journalist, right? I already know everything on your Wall Facbook. I've sent you a wish to be your friend, but you didn't respond to me. But never mind, it doesn't matter, the important thing is that you're happy with my poem he wrote in the inbox.
Then he wrote me a poem. I still don't want to get carried away. Still I consider this a crybaby poem delivered by a man when his feelings are forbidden by a momentary love. Love from the outer skin as the eyes rub against the face of a girl. That's the embodiment of the mainstream, still immature liking. But that's okay with the poem he sent. Let me keep it in my inbox. Who knows, this is useful and entertaining when tired of chasing the news in my favor, I thought.
Naina
Your name is beautiful
I keep it strong in the recesses of the soul
when longing comes to arrive
I called the name with a voice full of whispers
oh Naina, not the meaningless word I sent you
but each array contains soul shakes when a sense of reluctance to turn
I'm waiting for your word
even if I brought it in a dream
and larung rasaku to you
do not let time go in vain
Naina's...
There is a kind of love when reading the poem. But the firmness of my heart to endure by not responding to it, remains resting in the depths of my heart. I don't know who he is yet. Maybe he's like hundreds of my hidden fans who disappeared from circulation one by one on the wall Fbku. So, I just let the time do the talking and most importantly of all, I had to meet the poet who I thought was living in an imaginary world. If he wants to be my best friend, he must know that life is not just a summary of various images. But ninety percent is the real world with all the hustle and bustle.
***
"It's cool, too" said Ace, a photographer friend, when he saw me staring in front of a long mirror in the office lobby.
I'm confident. We went by the office car. Posts about the young entrepreneur's short profile should be completed today, after the writing is finished immediately layout and I have to work quickly. I told Ace that there was no chance to stop by the coffee shop or hang out for a while at Ismail Marzuki Park while eating ketoprak and mixed ice, as we usually do after the coverage. Ace nodded quickly. "Yoy!" said.
The car rolled off, entered Sudirman Street, then penetrated Thamrin road. On the right side of the road lined with towering skyscrapers, Jakarta is getting denser and megapolitan. I listened to Enrique Iglesias' voice through the car tape, I don't know what the title of the song was. But Enrique's sexy voice made me suddenly think of a poem called Nania. That man named Star herded my memories to him for a moment. But I'll be right away. The atmosphere outside the car that was grim because cloudy was seen since morning, made my feelings come to light blue. Oops! I should've gotten rid of all the thoughts about the poet. Her poetry magic has kept me busy thinking about her.
Five minutes later, the car arrived at the intended apartment. Located in Kuningan area. Ace and I were in no hurry. Time has shown nine o'clock less than five minutes. As promised, the young businessman named Hamid Utomo asked us to come at this time. I pressed the bell on the right side of the apartment door, a man stood before me. I just caught a glimpse. Though at first glance I know he's perfect. Tall, slender body of course with sixpack touch fitness routine, light-skinned, dense brow-like curvature of the crescent moon, gray-eyed and the last with a proportional chic appearance, proportional, there's a real masculine touch there. I'm sure the clothes he wears are made by famous designers. And the fragrance of the perfume is so manly, I can't yet guess what the brand of the perfume is, but I'm sure it must be expensive. Of course, my quick assessment didn't tell Ace my photographer friend. I saw Ace smiling meaningfully as I looked at the look on my face.
"Gile is handsome, Miss," he whispered to me. Ace always carried me Miss, the abbreviation of Mr. That's his own name. And I love that call.
The man, Hamid Utomo, let us in. The fragrant living room apartment smells softly on my nose. Super luxurious room with perfect interior and classy furniture that is first class quality, elegantly arranged and full of high artistic taste. I was thinking of course the apartment owner hired an interior designer consultant to arrange it.
"Hello, I'm Hamid Utomo. You guys are from the media who are about to interview me, right? What do you want to drink?" he asked as he developed his charismatic smile and extended his hand towards me as well as Ace.
Me and Ace are clumsy. We nodded our heads together. "Thank you, don't bother, Mr. Hamid," I said, creating the sweetest smile I've ever had.
"Don't call Dad, we might be the same age. I'm not married and I don't have any children yet" she said, still holding my hand.
I nodded quickly. "Well, what should I call?" I asked slowly, trying to carefully pull my hand that was in his grasp.
"Just call me Beib, I'd rather be called that." He said, letting us sit.
Then he ordered a woman to make us drink. I'm sure the woman was a domestic assistant who worked for her. But when he came to bring us drinks and snacks, Ace and I were shocked. That woman is so beautiful perfect. Light yellow with a look that is no less luxurious with Beib the young businessman.
Seriate
