I think I might be unintentionally stalking him.
Not to say that I'm above stalking someone I have a crush on. I don't call it stalking, really. It's more like careful, calculated observances of his pattern so that I can schedule my movements to be where he is so I can stare at him... And say nothing...
You see, I'm at the point of my life where heartbreak has taught you that the allure of a crush is broken when your crush opens his mouth to speak.
Because, in that moment, he becomes human. His voice higher than you imagined to be, his mannerisms more awkward and erratic than you'd thought they would be, his breathe a little tarter than the minty green freshness you were hoping for...
But, as I watch him, he can be anyone I want him to be.
Currently, he is six-foot- five and dark as the lead on a number 3 pencil. His shoulders are pushed back in an easy confidence. His bald head glistens under the flickering light of the old F train and his back muscles are faintly straining as he shoulders the weight of his blue gym bag. His beard is about 3 days away from being groomed and 4 days away from needing to be. Against the wool of his steel grey long coat, with one hand, he cradles a worn leather satchel with creases in all the right places. In the other hand, a book that he's either read more that once, or has borrowed from the library.
And as I start to write him, he's perfect.
I fancy him to work in non-profit in a directorial position. Maybe working in finance or marketing. On the weekends, if his physique is any indication, after a couple hours at the gym, he helps with a basketball camp where they call him "coach."
I don't give him a name. Names are real. Tangible. No need for names for a crush.
After practice he grabs a shower and goes to see about his mom. She's not feeling too well, but he takes care of her. His Dad needs a break sometimes, but who doesn't want to take care of their Mom?
A couple hours there and he's headed back to his house to change for the evening. He's got a date with a woman he thinks may be the one. She's a writer-- of course-- and there's something so intense about the way she looks at him. She was intimidatingly quiet when they met but he brought up his love for the Lion King something in her lit up and they had an hour conversation about Disney movies. He laughed so hard and so loud that, when the waiter asked them if they needed anything else this evening, he looked at him, lightheaded and confused as to why since he hadn't touched his wine.
And she, breathless from excitement, suddenly dimmed and whispered "No, thank you," before returning her gaze to the glass of wine sitting before her.
Tonight, he'd bring that side out of her. Tonight, he'd make her laugh like that again and in turn, he'd feel like he was 17 again. Free to like a woman, really like a woman, and befriend her, and woo her, and make her laugh, and have deep conversations and give her reason to kiss him with her eyes closed.
Because every woman wants the opportunity to kiss with their eyes closed...
And that his boys might think that was cool. Maybe, they'd admire the way he was putting in effort to make her like him. Maybe...
He turns and looks at me, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Caught.
I look down and pretend like I'm reading the book that's made its way to halfway closed on my lay. I'm not good at looking crushes in the eye. I've been told too often that my eyes give me away, that they are truly Windows to my would and I don't want him to have any idea what I'm thinking.
We pull up to a stop and out of the corner of my eye I notice his shadow move. I look up and find myself looking directly at him through the train window.
He waves.
I wave.
He smiles.
I do too.
And the train pulls off.
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