Anatomy of Love, Unrequited
An essay

Sometimes I think that I must be so pathetic, so obvious in my attraction for you that everyone can see it. That there is a neon sign over my head that flashes in time with the beat of my heart. There is a song called “Listen to your heart.” I have. All it says is your name over and over again (okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration. I’m sure it mentions other things. Like “Ooh, he looks so cute tonight!” And “My God, woman, are you trying to kill me? Stop taking the stairs!” Although maybe that last one might be my lungs).

I count down the minutes to when I will see you again on Sundays and Thursdays. If it is 12:35 AM, I know that it is less than a half hour until you will be there. But it is the longest 25 minutes of my life. Time stretches out and expands. 25 minutes feels like 25 years. The door opens and I jump to attention. Will it be you? It’s not.

The door opens. It is you. Does my face light up? I can feel the heat rise from my skin.

Where every one else is concerned, conversation comes easy. With you, I can barely say my own name, let alone have an intelligent conversation.

I try so hard not to stare at you, not to give myself away. My gaze lands on your face and moves away quickly. It reminds me of a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. But instead of daffodils and daisies, my eyes land on your eyebrow, your cheek, your ear. Sometimes I can’t help myself and find that I stare just a little too long. You look up. Can you tell how I feel just by looking at me?

I am creating a quilt of memories in my mind (okay, not really, but it was the only way to describe this). At any moment, I can place my mind on a patch and remember. This is where I finally realized that I thought of you as more than a friend. This is the night where I got drunk and told you how I felt about you (And compared you to Batman. Alcohol is not my friend) and kissed you. My lips were numb for an entire day (although the alcohol might have had something to do with that). This patch is the night that you hugged me (actually, there are several patches for that) and I held on as long as I could without being too obvious and enjoyed the scent of your skin and the Rolling Rock (why is it that you are the only man who makes beer smell sexy? Why?). This is where you gave me the birthday card and bought me drinks (and I tried to keep myself from pouring out everything that was on my mind).

I think of songs that remind me of you constantly. “Passionate Kisses.” “What Would Happen.” “I Hate Myself For Loving You.” They will loop in my mind, a soundtrack to my very own romantic comedy – emphasis on the comedic portion. Not so much on the romance.

I hate the thought of you ever being sad or unhappy. Even if you were to start dating someone, while I would be devastated if it is not me, I would still be happy for you. I wait patiently for us to have the talk, the one that starts “I’m flattered but…” I fill in the blanks in my mind – “I’m not interested.” “I’m seeing someone else.” “We should just be friends.” I would be able to handle any of this as long as we would still be friends. You are that important to me. Jackass.

I find myself writing letters to you in my head. And decide, hey, what better to do than to humiliate myself one step further and publish it on my blog? Because there is no way in hell that I am ever giving this to you. I’m just going to continue to let things take their extremely slow time and figure that maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that I am the perfect woman for you by the time I’m 50. What’s another eleven years?

Advertisements