Paulina

You’re probably more than twice my age. And you’re married, too.

 

But I’m attracted to you.

 

It’s a little crazy how we both love to drink coffee.

It’s a little absurd that you’re a music addict and I am, too.

Those things, interestingly, we have in common.

 

But I’m just physically attracted to you.

 

Your squarish-rectangular face and your �" gelled? �" hair. The way your beard hugs your face, it clings onto your cheeks and chin like I want to cling on to you. And I guess the worst part is that I haven’t paid enough attention to your eyes. In my mind, they appear in different colors every time I think of you, depending on how I’m feeling and the time of day. It’s four o’clock and I’m tired�"your eyes are blue.

 

When the teacher shows us maps in my AP US History class, I only think of your laugh lines. When she asks me what the Louisiana Purchase was and I answer “Yes”, it’s simply because I’m attracted to you. Perhaps that’s why I’m failing…

 

In the morning when it’s 8:16 and I have twenty-four minutes to walk to first period and the classroom is literally a couple of yards away, I show up early anyway.

 

I ditch my beloved friends in the morning to come and find you as quickly as I possibly can. I fantasize on my way there: I’ll walk in to see you alone, typing away with your large fingers and concentrated expression�"God, how I wish you’d look at me like that. You’ll see me. Smile at me, like you do. We’ll talk. We’ll share a moment of silence together�"because those are beautifully intimate.

 

A moment of silence between exactly two people is a pleasurably disastrous heaven. It’s no less than a kiss. After all, both events require you to stay quiet to connect with the other on an ethereal level.

 

And when the time comes that I do walk in, there’s my spotlight. I just finished rehearsing and now I’m being pushed onto the stage. You’re my audience and I find it relaxing how you won’t be disappointed if I forget my lines. So I don’t say anything. I wait for you to say hello.

 

“Good morning,” You say to me and my stomach lurches and twists and knots like the shoelaces on your Converse and…

 

“Good morning,” I say back with a voice that isn’t mine. It's this high pitch thing, and I know it's shakiness will increase in direct proportion to the tension building up inside of me. And that’s all. I throw my fantasy into the trashcan next to your desk. Like every morning, I’m disappointed to see you turn back to that boring, bright screen again. This makes sense, because it’s more interesting to you than I am. It presents you with dozens of important emails that you have yet to read and there I am, a bottle of old wine that you’ll never open.