Sometimes I stare. But I just can’t help myself from looking at the back of that pretty head. And those slender arms that come to a gentle rest in front of her, dainty fingers drumming away at an invisible tune of a popular song I’ve never heard of. She’s perfect. Her brown hair, her turquoise shirt with all the jewelry, and jeans. I don’t know anything about her, but she’s perfect.
It’s just this feeling I’ve got. An instinctual calling of fate that tells me “this one”. I can tell because my hands get sweaty. I can tell because when she looks towards me, I get hyper-aware. I start to feel my taste buds slide against the inside of my mouth and I can taste my early-morning saliva and lead-ridden drinking fountain water. I have to remind myself to blink every 15 seconds or so. I realize my foot has been tapping, and when I stop it, that potential energy builds up my anxiety. And all this happens with her quickly turning her head to the side to adjust her hair over her shoulder. When I pass her in the hallway, I realize the patter and rhythm to my walking until I start walking with a hobble. My lips feel uncomfortable just sitting there and I move them around until they’re fixed into some sly smile. But I always make sure not to show teeth- they’re not white enough. Maybe there’s something in them.
And as much as I hear “this one” ringing through my head on repeat for hours and hours, I can’t make myself do anything. If she was interested, I’d know, right? But why would she? I can smell my 3-day unwashed jeans when I sit down. Sometimes when she sits down, I get the faint whiff of name brand dryer sheets and mall-grade perfume. She’s perfect. But my shirt has a hole in the collar and I could probably use a haircut. Maybe after some new clothes and grooming I can maybe say ‘hi’.
I like to wonder what would happen if I just collapsed in the middle of everything. Who would rush over? Who would run away? Who would just watch? Who would care? I think about this scenario constantly in many different places, with many different people, but I can’t stop myself from always picturing her to run over first and be upset. Really, really upset. Her eyes filled with tears, holding my lifeless body and sobbing. It’s perfect.