So I ran into ‘her’.
And like all women who’ve ever worn that particular pronoun in the history of written literature… I almost wished I hadn’t.
And like every time I’ve “almost” wished I hadn’t… Well, there’s a story here too.
There she is… sitting across the table not five feet away. Less than three strides for the average disciple. Two if you’re as tall as me.
There are people talking. Every now and then she smiles; and it feels another ripple has passed over the surface of eternity. And as much as I think they messed up the darn punch line, it seems I can’t help but smile too. I wish they get the next one right... I do so hate it when she stops with that smile.
My heart craves what is only the caress of her gaze, but I now look away. I’m much too afraid she’ll catch me staring. Leaving me too embarrassed ever to be able to tell her that now that I had found her, I knew everything was going to be alright.
The sun would rise again tomorrow. The dang sunflowers would point in just the right direction. And that maybe, just maybe, one day as the sunlight would be streaming in through half open windows, I’d brush aside the stray hair that crept onto her face and wake her up with a kiss on her cheek that half spelt “I love you” and half “I love how you yawn”.
She glances my way once, as if to thank me for my words. I keep looking away. Seems I have not the mind to accept such thanks. I only gave her what was hers in the first place. And then she smiles again. It begins in her eyes, like all smiles worth telling someone about.
Seems they were working on their punch lines, after all.
I think about getting up and talking to her. It can’t be that difficult. In spite of what they say, it is a good sign if your legs turn to jelly and your mind turns to pudding. If she understands me the right way (and there is no other way), she’ll know she herself is my poetry made manifest. The “ba-ba-black-sheep” that I’ll end up doing such a spirited rendition of can probably just be written off to... creative differences.
I hesitate. I would need something to start a conversation with. Women have not been known to take kindly to opening lines about the annual sugar production of Cuba.
Perhaps something to do with how she embodies that which is beauty… serenity one could spend a lifetime trying to describe and yet words would not suffice.
No. Too long.
Perhaps a simple “Hi” would do. Maybe that’s all that is needed to open doors.
No. Too simplistic.
Maybe I simply recite the alphabet in my baritone. Let pheromones and good intentions take care of the rest.
No. Too clichéd.
So, well, I simply walk up to her and say…
…and we haven’t stopped talking since.
(Most of it about things like the coffee output of Brazil. Told you Cuba doesn't work).