Let’s be frank. We’re all buddies here. I’m a wreck.
Oh yes. Many many things. I’m lonely. I’m socially inept. I’m a waffler with women.
How many days ago was it that I was whining over Diana? Not many. I know that. Diana is fantastic. She did end up texting me. Sadly, I had to go deliver some pizza in order to scrape up enough dough for next year’s tuition. So we didn’t talk much.
Even so, because we can’t find time to talk to one another, we’re growing apart. And growing apart is so easy when you’re 4,541 miles apart. Hey, long-distance relationships are hard. In fact, the most common advice for long-distance relationships is don’t have one at all. Okay, maybe I made that up, but it sounds right.
Forgive my pessimism, but I can’t help but to think that Diana and I will fade from each other. We will never meet in person, we will never call each other, and her voice will remain nothing more than a myth.
Maybe it’s healthier to find something a little closer to home. Maybe there’s a girl in the area whom I can see during the summer or visit during college. That’s what most people my age look for, right?
Well, there’s this girl who goes to Starbucks every day. I myself don’t go every day, but whenever I do, she’s there. I must admit. Sometimes I stare. Now and then she meets my gaze, but I can never hold it. I look away. I have to. There’s nothing stronger than a woman’s eyes.
I don’t know why she’s in the cafe every day, I don’t know her name, and speaking of a woman’s eyes, I have no idea what color hers are. Probably blue? But what shade of blue? A light cornflower blue is not the same as a cold metallic blue. A warm electric blue is not the same as a pale arctic blue.
This girl–ugh, what is her name–has feathery strands of straw blonde hair, often pulled back in a ponytail. Bangs fall across her forehead and two curled tails of yellow hang beside each cheek, framing her sweet, round face.
As I wrote the climax of my novella today, I fell into her trance-inducing appearance. Her shoulder blades poked against her perfect, white skin, making the subtlest parentheses whose backs stretch and bend to her every movement, but never turn to face one another.
Too many months have passed. I have no hope to ever experience such a simple treasure as the surface of a young woman’s back. I have no idea what such a thing is like. And so I fell into that trance, confused really. Yes, the sight of her confuses me. When I see her, I feel like a man, who having been sent to the future, stumbles upon an astonishingly beautiful invention. I know without a doubt that the device serves some highly meaningful purpose and yet, I have no idea what that purpose might be.
And always, while I marvel at her, writing my novella in between thoughtful glances, she checks her phone regularly until someone finally calls her. Who calls her? A man? I wonder.
I wonder there at Starbucks and I wonder now. Before I can ever decide on a logical answer, she packs up her stuff and leaves. Her feet fall softly, making no noise. Not a single person turns his head as she walks off to her Connecticut-licensed car. This is New York. What are you doing here?
But I won’t ever say anything to her. What if she has a boyfriend? What if she wants nothing to do with me? What if she does and not long after, I decide that I want nothing to do with her? Then, she’ll be there in Starbucks and I’ll be in Starbucks, and the sight of each other will only draw forth awkward, shameful feelings.
Ugh, such is the plight of a socially awkward nerd. We think way too much and do too little. We think until we forget how to act. We tell ourselves that maybe, just maybe, she’ll come talk to us if we look enough. But that’s never what happens.
*Sighs a long and heavy sigh*