Head Over Five Inch Heels

Written Summer 2008.

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.

The words resound in my retrospectively regrettful brain.
And yes I do want to tell him but no I don't. And yes I do want to tell him... but no I don't. Sometimes I secretly conclude that if he was any more beautiful I'd keel over ecstatically euphoric to exist in his presence.

A quick press of my lips together to check the rockstar red lipstick and a run of my hand around the back of my legs to check no holes in the fishnets. Yes seems to be in check. Looking in the mirror I proclaim to both me and the world that's not really listening: Today is the Day. I will inconspicuously make him spot me somewhere.

And then:

Oh goodness no,  
"One single to Chester please"
There's noway I'm going to let him see me at all, I'll go somewhere familiar and drown my sorrows in the oh so adolescent bottle of vodka and lemonade that I concoct to wipe myself of the inhibitons that keep me reigned to playing it cool.

I will tell him. Before he leaves my life again, sinning in the city of his educational abode.

But goodness I wish my heels weren't so high.  

It would have been a lot easier to fall headwise over them.