I was acting on courage alone. I stood at the window, my hand pressed to the rain splattered glass and oblivious to the cold, waiting. My green eyes watched, anticipating the sight of him, and the tension I’d created within myself strained along the rim of my psyche like a brimming cup.
For a year he had been dominating my thoughts, and I found it increasingly difficult to focus on my job, my mind constantly shifting back to memories of his face and driving me to distraction. We had the shared skill of story telling, and on that we had built a friendship. We shared a passion for words, keeping one another inspired and motivated to create; the irony wasn’t lost on me that as much as I loved words, some were difficult for me to put together.
He was a handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes that danced when he laughed, and his winning the genetic jackpot only served to intimidate me into silence; no small feat. And now here I was waiting for him to arrive under the pretense of needing him to read my latest work; clearly I was insane.
It wasn’t just the possible rejection of my feelings that I was afraid of; it was the potential affect my confession could have on our friendship, which was something I didn’t want to lose. But as a friend had once told me, “fate favors the risky” so here I was, waiting to take the risk.
His car turned the corner onto my street, the silver paint shimmering under a layer of rainwater and the headlights refracting off the sheeting drops that fell through the beams, diffusing the light into an almost worthless haze. I watched as he parallel parked near the corner, climbing out of the car and jogging toward my building.
My heart pounded almost painfully against my sternum.
For the hundredth time I glanced around my apartment, making sure everything was perfect. I had lit at least a dozen candles when the power had gone out, so the air glowed with soft golden warmth that gave the feeling of being in a cocoon.
Despite anticipating it, the knock on the door made me jump and with a deep breath I opened the door to let him in. His hair was wet and a fine layer of moisture coated his face. He took off his coat, shaking the water off in the hallway before coming inside.
“Man, it is pouring out there,” he said, “This new work of yours better be epic.” His laughter filled the space and I smiled at him, closing the door in his wake as he hung his coat on the rack.
Heading into the kitchen he poured himself a cup of coffee; he had been over enough times to know there would be some hot and it made me smile that he was so comfortable in my home. I smiled even wider as I watched him pour a second cup for me, adding cream and sugar and giving it a stir before handing it to me.
Holding the cup in my hands I moved into the living room, sipping the sweet brew as I stared out the window at the eerie light the storm had created. Turning when he entered the room I watched as he sunk down onto the sofa, sipping his own drink with a contented sigh.
“So, what is this new thing you’re working on?” he asked, propping his right foot on his left knee and stretching his left arm along the back of the couch. I lingered by the bank of windows that made up one whole wall, the cold air that seeped through pressing against my back as though trying to push me forward.
My mantra rolled in a loop through my mind, fate favors the risky, fate favors the risky, fate favors the risky and the nerve those words gave propelled me forward. I set my mug down on the coffee table and folded my arms in front of me, as through they could protect me.
“Well,” I began, “I have to confess that I invited you over today under a somewhat misleading guise.”
His eyebrows drew together in confusion, “What do you mean?” he asked, setting his mug on the side table before sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
My pulse was fluttering wildly, thousands of tiny bird wings beating against the underside of my skin, but I pressed on. “I have been working on something, but it’s not a new book.” I felt rooted to the spot by the intensity of his questioning stare, and couldn’t have moved if my life depended on it.
Finally I just sighed, closing my eyes as I spoke, “I don’t want you to feel pressured or obligated or anything like that but I couldn’t let another day pass without telling you how I feel about you.” I kept my eyes shut and pressed on, “When I’m with you I feel like I can do anything, like I could be anything I wanted to be. I can’t even articulate all the things you make me feel, and I know I’m not the kind of woman you normally go for, but there it is.”
I kept my eyes closed for a few more heartbeats, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me and it made it hard to breathe. The silence that descended on the room was heavy, like a wet blanket, oppressive and smothering, and I slowly opened my eyes.
He got slowly to his feet, wiping his palms on his jeans. “I… um…” he paused, “This is a lot to process,” he said as he moved slowly toward the door, and I could smell his fear as he passed. Lifting his jacket from the rack he paused with his hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder at me, “I’ll call you.” With that he was gone.
I moved across the room and stared out the window, my hand again pressed to the rain splattered glass and oblivious to the cold. I watched him walk slowly through the rain toward his car, and I wondered if I would ever see him again.
For a year he had been dominating my thoughts, and I found it increasingly difficult to focus on my job, my mind constantly shifting back to memories of his face and driving me to distraction. We had the shared skill of story telling, and on that we had built a friendship. We shared a passion for words, keeping one another inspired and motivated to create; the irony wasn’t lost on me that as much as I loved words, some were difficult for me to put together.
He was a handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes that danced when he laughed, and his winning the genetic jackpot only served to intimidate me into silence; no small feat. And now here I was waiting for him to arrive under the pretense of needing him to read my latest work; clearly I was insane.
It wasn’t just the possible rejection of my feelings that I was afraid of; it was the potential affect my confession could have on our friendship, which was something I didn’t want to lose. But as a friend had once told me, “fate favors the risky” so here I was, waiting to take the risk.
His car turned the corner onto my street, the silver paint shimmering under a layer of rainwater and the headlights refracting off the sheeting drops that fell through the beams, diffusing the light into an almost worthless haze. I watched as he parallel parked near the corner, climbing out of the car and jogging toward my building.
My heart pounded almost painfully against my sternum.
For the hundredth time I glanced around my apartment, making sure everything was perfect. I had lit at least a dozen candles when the power had gone out, so the air glowed with soft golden warmth that gave the feeling of being in a cocoon.
Despite anticipating it, the knock on the door made me jump and with a deep breath I opened the door to let him in. His hair was wet and a fine layer of moisture coated his face. He took off his coat, shaking the water off in the hallway before coming inside.
“Man, it is pouring out there,” he said, “This new work of yours better be epic.” His laughter filled the space and I smiled at him, closing the door in his wake as he hung his coat on the rack.
Heading into the kitchen he poured himself a cup of coffee; he had been over enough times to know there would be some hot and it made me smile that he was so comfortable in my home. I smiled even wider as I watched him pour a second cup for me, adding cream and sugar and giving it a stir before handing it to me.
Holding the cup in my hands I moved into the living room, sipping the sweet brew as I stared out the window at the eerie light the storm had created. Turning when he entered the room I watched as he sunk down onto the sofa, sipping his own drink with a contented sigh.
“So, what is this new thing you’re working on?” he asked, propping his right foot on his left knee and stretching his left arm along the back of the couch. I lingered by the bank of windows that made up one whole wall, the cold air that seeped through pressing against my back as though trying to push me forward.
My mantra rolled in a loop through my mind, fate favors the risky, fate favors the risky, fate favors the risky and the nerve those words gave propelled me forward. I set my mug down on the coffee table and folded my arms in front of me, as through they could protect me.
“Well,” I began, “I have to confess that I invited you over today under a somewhat misleading guise.”
His eyebrows drew together in confusion, “What do you mean?” he asked, setting his mug on the side table before sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
My pulse was fluttering wildly, thousands of tiny bird wings beating against the underside of my skin, but I pressed on. “I have been working on something, but it’s not a new book.” I felt rooted to the spot by the intensity of his questioning stare, and couldn’t have moved if my life depended on it.
Finally I just sighed, closing my eyes as I spoke, “I don’t want you to feel pressured or obligated or anything like that but I couldn’t let another day pass without telling you how I feel about you.” I kept my eyes shut and pressed on, “When I’m with you I feel like I can do anything, like I could be anything I wanted to be. I can’t even articulate all the things you make me feel, and I know I’m not the kind of woman you normally go for, but there it is.”
I kept my eyes closed for a few more heartbeats, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me and it made it hard to breathe. The silence that descended on the room was heavy, like a wet blanket, oppressive and smothering, and I slowly opened my eyes.
He got slowly to his feet, wiping his palms on his jeans. “I… um…” he paused, “This is a lot to process,” he said as he moved slowly toward the door, and I could smell his fear as he passed. Lifting his jacket from the rack he paused with his hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder at me, “I’ll call you.” With that he was gone.
I moved across the room and stared out the window, my hand again pressed to the rain splattered glass and oblivious to the cold. I watched him walk slowly through the rain toward his car, and I wondered if I would ever see him again.
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