Truth be told: I am a hot mess (sometimes) whose fleeting responses to intimacy come at the cost of authentic relationships and cause much more heartache in trying to protect myself from injury than that of actually putting myself out there.
So, imagine my surprise when she said, “Next time, let’s sit at the front of class. Save a seat for me if you get there before I do.” Rarely am I so immediately confused. But in all eagerness, I longed to honor her modest request; racing toward our next class, determined to keep my word; shunning conversations with others; she’d never know I had been running. Instead, she is there waiting–for me.
Beneath a veil of rusting candied-apple locs shown a constellation of opulent freckles mapping the territory of heaven; her eyes more brilliant than all earth and ocean. Her voice: a testimony of long-awaited nights of winter’s intimacy. My gaze is fixed upon her lips, studying every syllable of her native tongue, frozen by the whisper of a [ch]ill.
Worlds apart in so many ways, but the sudden collapse of distance accentuated the glory of our peculiaris.
So, why am I searching for everything “wrong” with my life; everything wrong with me; exaggerating all the differences; fabricating consequences; trying to convince myself that “she” and “me” could never be “we;” negotiating my heart’s desire only to torment myself with the specter of a dream I never once had?