I can only think of Cynthia, no one else.
I have to be careful though. I don’t want to bombard her with an answering text, demanding that we meet up. I also don’t want to call her. She probably won’t pick up.
It’s almost a bit comical, how she actually thought this text would just end things. She must not realize how much I want her. I’ll have to make that perfectly clear at the very next opportunity.
I roll my cart to the registers and check out. Once I’m back in my car, I put it into gear and stew over the issue as I drive home.
I don’t want to barge in on her. It’s actually illegal. A landlord has to give warning before visiting a tenant. So I need to either invite her to my place or somehow set up a meeting. I’m happy to take her out to dinner or meet her at a coffee shop in town, whatever makes her most comfortable.
One way or another, I’m going to have to answer the text. I hate to even acknowledge it, and I don’t want to have too much conversation over text, but it feels like the best way to communicate while respecting her.
I feel confident that Cynthia is trying to disengage out of fear that she feels too much, but there is a small knot of doubt inside me. Maybe she actually is uninterested in me. Maybe there’s another guy, and now that she’s no longer a virgin, she feels more confident going after him.
Well, if that’s the truth, I need to know. If she truly has no feelings for me, I can respect that.
I can’t just sit down and take it if she’s lying or covering her real emotions. I won’t let her do that to me, and I won’t let her do that to herself.
I know I’m not the rational choice. I’m not the guy she expected to be with at this point in her life. But I’m here, and I know I can treat her right. She even admits that in this absurd text. She just doesn’t know how willing I am to be the guy for her.
When I pull into my driveway, I scan the house next door. I note that her bike is outside. She could be out without the bike, but I’m willing to bet it means she’s at home. After all, I noticed the bike was gone this morning when I left.
I grab my groceries and carry them into my house, wondering if she’s peeking out from her window. Since it’s daylight out, I can’t see if any lights are on within her apartment.
Now isn’t the time for spying in any case. I need to figure out how to best approach her.
Once I’ve put away all my groceries, I pick up my phone. I think it’s best to keep it straight and to the point. No grand speech or big declarations.
I type out a couple of short sentences: I would like to talk to you in person. When can we meet up?
I send it right away. I have no doubt that my response will push her into a flurry of over-analyzing and panic, and I wish I could just go see her and tell her how I feel, but I know it wouldn’t be cool to invade her privacy.
I don’t expect her to respond right away, but as the minutes tick by, I grow frustrated.
I pace around the first floor of my house and peer over at her place every time I pass the window facing it.
I’m a man deranged. I know it, but I can’t stop it. I’ve learned that denying your feelings don’t make them go away. Clearly Cynthia is too young. She hasn’t gained that valuable lesson yet.
I sink into a chair and close my eyes. I try to envision her beautiful face. It’s been too long since I last saw it. I can still recall how bright blue her eyes were up close, and the way her bottom lip is fuller than the top. I want to roll her around on the bed until her dark hair is as messy as possible. I want to memorize every line of her curves.
She has to let me though. She needs to choose to let me in. I can’t force it or make that choice for her. She chose to trust me once, I need to believe she can trust me again.
I am mildly concerned about my reaction to her. I haven’t been this hung up on a woman in a long time. It’s not like me to be this obsessive. I’ve never been this determined to see someone. I’ve never felt like if I don’t see Cynthia in the flesh very soon, I’m going to explode.
I won’t run away from my feelings though. I’m too old for all that.
But I’m not too old for Cynthia. That’s one thing that has become clear to me. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make love to her again. I need to show her that I’m right for her. Maybe not forever. Maybe I’m not her soulmate. But I can be right for her where she is in her life.
Somehow, I manage to pass the hours. I cook myself dinner and eat it alone, all while staring at my phone, waiting for a response to my text. It never comes.
By nightfall, I’m at the end of my rope. She has to know that I expect a response. She has to know that I won’t just be ignored.
I’m standing in my kitchen, gazing out the window above the sink, when it happens. Her living room light switches on.
For a solid minute, I barely move. I just stare at the square of warm light.
Then I see her pass by the window. It’s the briefest glimpse, but the sight of her shadowy form makes my stomach tighten with need.
She’s in there. Drifting back and forth.
