Crush

Some days, I would wake up and, without even thinking, his name would escape my lips like breathing. You see, he wasn't the sort of guy you had to even be around to appreciate. Just the thought of him was enough, seriously. And, let’s assume you did, you know, hang out with him. It’s not like he ever even said very much or made very much eye contact. Still, if he did, you know, look at you, his eyes just made you feel like falling, like they led somewhere.

Yeah, there was something intimidating about him. And it wasn’t even how his face was always covered by hair, scarves and bandanas or how worn his clothes were or that he was… interesting. It wasn’t even the fact that he spent some nights homeless on the streets of New York City or that he went around stealing pens, Christmas socks, and candy from the Michael’s and Ollie’s at that one plaza. It was the way that he could go around without really needing you, or anyone, for that matter; the way he seemed to see something beyond you. Yeah, without even trying, he could make you feel so small and self-centered.

So how could anyone help falling in love with him? It was like every other human being you had ever met had this very specific idea of what it meant to be human, to really live, to be successful. Like they all took the same class in middle school, or something. And they all sucked at it, in some way. They were never honest enough, or smart enough, or clean enough. And, somehow, he had discovered this whole other world, so that he was completely exempt from any rules or criticism. He was more than enough. In every way possible.

He didn’t really open up about himself, but there was so much you could just tell. There were sides to him that he never admitted, but showed in these bashful ways. Like the way he would hold on to your hand, so that- even when your own hand was limp- his was still holding on, like there was something about your hand that was worth holding on to. Or how he always carried something in his backpack to give away, something you didn’t realize you really wanted until he handed it to you: a “Cat in the Hat” plush toy, dinosaur egg oatmeal, an old receipt with his name on it. Yeah, in those moments, you realized, you thought, you hoped, you wondered… well, maybe he saw something special in you, too. Just the thought of him seeing you at all, you know, taking the time to notice you were actually there, even that was exciting.

So how could anyone ever love him completely? He was always hiding. Sometimes he might tell you about how he couldn’t stand his mom’s bipolar screaming, or how he punched a wall when she was really drunk one day. And you maybe wanted to be there for him because you could maybe understand. Because your dad got really drunk sometimes and, sure, you had never punched a wall because of it, but it had hurt as bad, just the same. And maybe this was your chance to feel kind of useful around him, kind of feel needed. But it was like he couldn’t let you have that moment. He would instead amuse himself by coming up with disjointed meaningless phrases and smile like there was some joke you weren’t getting. And… man, you would feel really dumb right then.

So say you had just spent a few hours at a coffee shop with him- because it was freezing cold out and you didn’t know where else to go- and he happened to look at his phone like he had just realized the time. Well you would probably beat yourself up about it, and tell yourself that you had to be the single dullest human being in the world, like the sort of person to eat a well balanced meal every morning. And all he could do to keep from saying those very words to your face was sit there quietly, drawing.

Because you knew what he thought about ordinary people. You knew how it disgusted him to see what a boring mess most everyone made of their lives. And maybe sometimes you daydreamed about financial stability, being a homeowner, having a large backyard. Well that was a part of you that you were always desperately hiding behind your free, progressive, selfless, idealistic self.

So, say you both started to leave that coffee shop. And the old man in the corner booth was still napping. He looked like he did that every weekend, every day, even, that dirty old man. And you just remembered that the coffee shop sold pie. When was the last time you had had a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie? And you immediately regretted not getting a slice because then he would know that you were the sort of person to get a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie, just on a whim, shamelessly. And while you were staring at that pie on the counter, he had already made his way to that space between the two doorways leading to the bitter cold outside. So you rushed to join him in that space and waited for him to open the second door, but he didn’t. He turned around and kissed you. And you tried to enjoy the kiss, to mentally capture every detail, but all you could do was process the fact that the kiss was his idea. That it was something he wanted to do. And then you realized that something maybe… happened… in those quiet hours at the coffee shop. That at some point, somehow, he managed to like you back. 

5 descriptions

1.      Simply

There had yet to be a snowstorm in the city. After the storm, the trees stood proudly, covered in snow. The light hit the snow, making it sparkle.

2.      Excessively

Just the day before, the land was dormant and mushy with the gloomy uncertainty of a season not yet fully expressed. Suddenly, a blizzard hit with a merciless passion! How I cowered and cringed at the sight, nesting myself in layers of mismatched blankets. Only now do I realize my foolishness in protesting what I thought to be icy violence. Only now do I see what loving tenderness a winter storm may bring. There is a stillness that bounces off the crystals, a monastic air where ice meets sunlight. And the trees! Their inner grace and charm was so hidden, before, in their leafless mourning. Now they wear the snowy glittering and stand so tall. With purpose! With pride!

3.      Vaguely

When a winter may become itself, it acts inconsiderate of flora and fauna. It establishes its presence in a deadly, crystallized coating. Only now, after the storm, am I aware of its delicate, nurturing hand. The glistening land greets me with the sacred comfort of Christmas day or wooden floors and high ceilings. My spirits soar with the cheerful dance of so many graceful branches, ornamented.

4.      Precisely

A week and three months had gone by in the city of Rochester with the same grey stagnancy. Sure, just a week before the storm, there was a light, fluffy dusting, but those millions of snowflakes were much too kind, much too delicate, to survive very long. The first snowstorm of the season descended upon the city mercilessly. The winds ravaged the land, tugging and tearing off stubborn scarves, uprooting naive sidewalk weeds and sproutlings. How they taunted me; thrusting and thrashing against my window in brutal arrogance! I nested myself in mismatched blankets: the one I got when I was born, the one my aunt crocheted for me, the one I bought at Kmart because I liked the brown paisley pattern. I hadn’t planned to spend most of Friday wrapped up in blankets, but how I could leave the warmth of my nest and attempt to step into that icy war zone?

No, it wasn’t until the storm began to subside, the snowfall gentle, even inviting, that I decided to venture out and observe the damage. It must have been cold out. I could feel my thighs burn in protest under my worn, thin jeans. But it was not enough to hurry my footsteps. I was captivated, entranced by what seemed like some miracle born of torment.

 It was the trees, actually, the ones that lined the path to Carlson Library. Just the day before, they seemed gaunt and emaciated, with nothing to hold or nurture in their fingertips.  These clouds of delicate crystals lay so peacefully there, now, tenderly, refracting lullaby sunbeams. And the trees were rejuvenated, bearing their new fruits proudly. How could I rush inside, then, ten majestic trees lining my path, shimmering?

5.      Purposefully

Having spent every winter of my life in unforgiving climates, I was tired of that particular experience and all of the burdens that come with it. I was applying to graduate school programs and found myself daydreaming of places like Miami, or Los Angeles. Yes, I could see myself going to the beach in middle of November, and not traveling through tunnel systems just to get by. It had really been a mild winter, up until the storm, so I guess I couldn’t complain. Just the same, I did, about the lack of sunlight, about the wet, stagnant ickiness of it all. And then the storm hit.

I awoke to a call from the office, where I work, telling me that, given the storm, I could work from home that day, if I preferred. I managed to utter some grateful mutterings, just before hanging up and looking out my window. It was awful, as far as winter storms are concerned. The wind thrashed at my window in a steady, menacing rhythm. The medical center and library were barely visible behind sheets of murderous snow grenades. Yeah, I decided, I was not having any of that on a Friday. I wrapped myself up in all of the blankets I could find and closed my eyes. Coconuts, palm trees, mangos, and ocean waves.

And I might have stayed like that all day, too, had I not scheduled a coffee date for that evening. Luckily, the storm had subsided by then, and I figured I might stay warm if I walked briskly. As soon as I stepped outside, I could tell that something had changed. There was a stillness.

Nothing could express it better than those trees, the ones that line the path to the library. There were so barren, so sad and empty the day before. And now the snow coated them with purpose. They cradled those mounds of snow tenderly. Yeah, that very same snow that just before had seemed so lethal. Now it struck me as newborn, meek and beautiful, the snow. I realized what a sacred scene it all was, how foolish and short-sighted I had been. And I thought- well, I just couldn’t give it all up for some ocean waves and palm trees.