The soft and tender underpart of her upper arm grazed my fingertips last night. I surrendered to the memories of her telling me some weeks ago that she started using a different kind of deodorant. Enchanted joked that she wouldn’t make me smell them, but what she didn’t realize was that I longed to get a good whiff of her cherry blossom pits. Another missed opportunity, I suppose…
I had a moment with her though. While laying me to bed, I looked into her eyes and she looked into mine.
“You don’t have to be jealous about Lisa, by the way,” I said to her, referencing that I was excited about another one of my favourite nurses coming for several nights in a row. “I love it when you come.”
Truth be told, I can’t be angry at her, no matter how hard I try. I just make excuses so I think I’m on the verge of getting over her. She is indeed one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and falling for her is a cycle that never seems to end.
“I feel safe whenever you come,” I continued while she took a sip of water.
“That’s good to know.”
“I try to be,” she joked again. “Just kidding!”
“You don’t have to try.”
After turning to the other side for the continuance of physiotherapy, I was relieved to discover that if I wasn’t her client, she’d have considered me to be a friend, instead of brother or cousin. She later said brother, but I denied her change of mind when I said she was too pretty.
“You told me once that your boyfriend never wrote you a love letter before, right?” I asked.
“Well,” she started, “he did leave me a note once with my lunch.”
“That’s not a love letter.”
“I know, but…”
“He’s an idiot.”
“My boyfriend is an idiot?” she grinned.
“He should write love letters to you all the time! Girls love that kind of stuff. I know I do.”
“I’m old-fashioned,” I explained. “I’ve never received a love letter though.”
“I’m too romantic for my own good.”
Eventually, I confessed that I had given up on romance, following the number inquiry at National Sports. Honestly, it had been a long time coming. I wanted to use the scenario to let go of the hope for my romance for good. Yet as I told her, I realized again that comfort would never be a luxury of mine because she had nothing much to say. I think a lot of times, girls are afraid of mending my heart, in fear that I might get the wrong idea.
“At times, I wish someone could just say ‘I would’ without fearing that I might get the wrong idea,” I wrote in my upcoming autobiography, “but even the ones who tell me it’s possible could never say those words.”
I don’t like being right sometimes. I don’t like settling either, especially for women who have sticks in their hair!
“If I had a girlfriend, she better be prettier than you,” I exclaimed. “But that’s sort of impossible!”
“It better be,” she laughed.
And then it happened again when I looked at her, so I told her for the first time ever.
“You’re a little shy, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Whenever I look at you, you immediately look away and giggle.”
“I remember when you first came,” I began saying, “you were tired and you made two fists and rubbed your eyes. I loved that.”
Her face probably hurt at that point!!!
“My heart is numb,” I said. “But it melts every time I see you.”
Before falling asleep, I made one last confession: “I think I tell you too much sometimes, but if there was someone in the world that I wanted them to know who I am, it’s you.”
“Goodnight, Ricky,” she smiled.
Last night was a moment; a series of moments to remember. I admit that it probably wasn’t ours, but mine, another creation fabricated by my foolish, lonely heart. I love her too much, and yet, there is no hope.