CRUSH

wistful love

She brought him chocolates
And was made up like a beauty dressed to kill
On a work day, (for him, no doubt)
Mascara, lipstick and a preppy, glowing, cheerful demeanor
Of playful personality.

On the last day of school
A last prep day for him
The final one

She was coy
Distant but close
Flitting with little objects at her teacher’s desk.

He pondered a hug
Thinking it would never occur
Her flirtation had sustained over 3 years’ time
Culminating at this final day
Chocolates she again gave him
3 expensive packages and kinds
Truffles
Dark with sea salt
And another very rich one.

The day went fast
But not before
She enjoyed his taquitos de ojo
Reflected from his pupil back to her
Of her youthful coy beauty
He would stare and smirk 
Her cuteness beyond description
As she explained 
Inevitably throwing a pen at him
With mixture of frustration and feigned neutralized anger.

He strategized, how would he trigger a hug
At the parking curb 
Where his pickup awaited
And her own SUV
She packed and picked up her own baggage
Nervously commenting on the cluttered floor board
Refusing his advances
To help.

Then she straightened
And closed the passenger door
Can you give me a hug, he asked
“No, I won’t,” she responded
With muffled, firm voice
Extending her hand for a handshake as he had expected
Suppressing resentment,
He took her right hand 

Firm it was and tanned forearm
Strong grip and with smooth motion
Attempted to lead, guide her up the 8 inch curb
Her body stiffened but followed his lead up the concrete
He felt her discomfort, resentful awkward
He felt rejection yet again.

Like in times past when touch 
Some welcomed and subtle
Others blocked 
Like at the cafeteria two days prior at the 6th graders dance
When he and she had formed an arch with their arms
And he at the peak touched her index finger
And grasped it between his thumb and own index finger
And she pulled away
And he embarrassed
Rejected yet another time

And then at the parking spot
He walked away to her driver side door
At front of SUV
Waiting yet wanting to leave
But she extended her arm again
He felt her sense of apology
Her sense of knowing his hurt

He took her hand hesitantly, thinking
Considering rather to hold an offense
Shook it while mustering strength to say
Cheerfully, Okay Sister, it’s been good knowing you
In a Texas accent kind of way
She grinning sheepishly.

“I probably won’t be able to go”
Meaning his Five Italian Retirement Dinner invitation
It’s ok, he said
“But I might go to the reception”
He said, good, I hope you can
Yet knowing she probably wouldn’t,
He would never see her again
His greatest remorse.



Then he walked toward his own
She stopped him with her eyes
Having stepped into the vehicle fumbling with the door
Playing with the dash, the ignition, stalling
Sitting back like a swagger, arms extended at the wheel
Now like a different person
Confident, sexually appealing
“Garcia,” she said 
And he could not remember what she had said
But it was also laden with remorse
Yet spoken with wistfulness and flirtatious, confident independence
Of a woman who could have yielded to temptation
But admirable that she or had not

He turned to go to his pickup
She closed the door and caught him again with her eyes
And voice
“Garcia," hay tomate una por mi,” cockily, sexily spoken
Yet another on rare occasions he had before heard such tone
Another side of her past perhaps
What? He asked her, knowing what she had first said, yet taken by surprise
“Hay tomate una por me,” she repeated, 
(Have one on me)
I will, he responded as cheerfully as he could 
Feeling hypocrisy of the greatest kind

Feeling a strong reflex to hand sweep a breath kiss at her
As she looked at him with a beaming smile
But he suspected repercussions and resisted that urge
Climbing into his own vehicle
Feeling empty and stupidly foolish
Thinking he would never, ever see her again.