If I had to write a bio in less than three minutes, one that would navigate a stranger through a great deal of me, it would probably read something like this:
I'm five seven. Raised on a Boeing 757 and am a cheap at cards. My favorite movie is You've Got Mail because I like that part at the end where it's all NY152-is-about-to-cry-and-Shopgirl-sniffles-"I-Wanted-It-To-Be-You-So-Badly." I'm into peanut butter on pancakes, anything but tennis, and I think I'm allergic to Avocados, but nothing can be certain. Come with me if you want to party.
This might be why no one ever wants to date me for real.
You know those times when you're on the brink of one of those things that's scary enough to make your knees knob together? But then you realize that it's "wait, it's never been this good before" and "wait, he opens my car door?" and "WAIT HE WALKS ME ALL THE WAY TO THE FRONT PORCH AND DOESN'T EVEN EXPECT A KISS?"
Well, I'm in the midst of one of those things.
I think I am.
I mean, could be wrong.
And if I am wrong, what else is new? Sometimes I think I feel things that the other person doesn't feel, and even though I think they're feeling the same things that I am, they mostly just want to kiss me and get on with it. I've had a lot of experience there, and I'm not trying to play the victim or lament, I'm just trying to tell the truth. Getting back to the point, though, in all of those other times, I've been wrong. So, I could be about this one.
But there was that moment I'm always waiting for. The one where everything tightens up in the lens.
The one where you're both sitting on wrought iron chairs and it's sort of windy outside and you're sort of blowing away, and your empty ice cream cups are stuck inside of each other and your spoons overlap. And you wonder if there's a metaphor somewhere in there, but you're not concerned with that because what are metaphors to green eyes and the first pair of deep set dimples you ever documented loving? And you give the answer to a question he asks, which is insignificantly about zoo animals and you're laughing with your head back, hair in your eyes, stain on your skinny jeans, and it's all you.
And he sees it.
What no one has seen before.
There's a glance. It's shorter than a look and long enough to just grab you by the bones. The one that comes when he catches your wide-mouth grin because something was really funny. You're a disastrous flood of crumpled hair and a backwards baseball cap. You watch him lean in his chair, raise both eyebrows, place one hand over his forehead and you swear you can hear him think that you must be the loveliest thing.
And how wonderful it is to feel lovely to him.
And the gamble of being wrong about it all is tragically intoxicating. And I can't stop thinking about what if.