Brave

This is what is going to happen. I am going to be brave. On Monday, I will go into the office first thing in the morning. My hair will be capped with snow, and a mug of coffee will be warm in my hand. I am going to make a bunch of copies, and when I am done, I am going to walk over to his desk and say, "When are you going home for Christmas?"

"Friday," he'll say. "Right after work. You?"

"I don't know," I'll answer. "I live close by, so I'll probably only stay home for a couple of days. Maybe Sunday to Tuesday. How long do you have off?"

"I have to be back on Wednesday."

"That sucks. Not long enough." I'll take a sip of my coffee, and then, like an afterthought, I'll say, "You and me should do something over break. All my roommates are taking off for a while, and people from school will be gone, so there won't be much going on. Do you want to?"

And he will say, "Sure." He might hesitate, and my breath might catch, but then he'll do that little laugh he does every time I talk about something other than work, and his face will have that glow. I'll be looking down at him, standing over his desk, and I'll catch a glimpse of his blue eyes over his glasses.

"Cool," I'll say. "I'll email you. Or you email me, or something. And we can...I don't know. Drink. Or whatever."

He'll laugh again, and I'll know I'm making him nervous. But not bad nervous. Just a happy, shy sort of nervous. 'I think she just asked me out' sort of nervous. Then I'll smile and say, "Have a good holiday!" And I'll leave, without tripping over my feet.

I will be too scared to write him -- I know myself that well - but a few days after Christmas I will run into him at the coffee shop. We will both be shivering, and he'll rub his hands together and blow on them to keep them warm, the way I've seen him do before. We'll talk for a while and then I'll say, "Hey, I was going to email you a couple days ago, but I got caught up in some stuff. We should still hang out, though."

"Yeah," he'll say, and I'll be scared that I hear doubt in his voice, but I'll suck it up and plow on.

"What are you doing tonight?" I'll ask. I'll shrug like it's casual but everything will go still around me, like I just ran off a cliff and am waiting to fall.

"I don't know," he'll say. In this moment I'll see the girl I think he likes instead of me, the girl he made all that eye contact with at the office party, the girl who -- and this is the thing of it -- is kind of like me, except she's skinnier and wittier and just enough older to be cool. The girl who had a boyfriend for the past six years, but is now single again, and is looking for a rebound. The girl who isn't that interested in him -- who will be moving, actually, at the end of the year -- but will let him catch hold of her, for a while. The girl he's been in love with all this time.

Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he just thinks she's cute.

Maybe he knows he has no chance.

Maybe it's nothing.

Maybe.

Because maybe he'll say, "Well, I was going to stay here and work on a story for a while, but -- yeah. We could go."

"Sweet," I'll say. "Want to stay here and work for like an hour, and after that we can go and have a beer at McCarthy's or something?"

"Yeah," he'll say, his voice rasping, and then, "Yeah," again, but with more assurance. We will sit at the same table and I'll read and he'll write, and I'll feel the heat building up around the two of us, enveloping us both in its glow.

That hour will be like the hours you spend lying awake at night before Christmas morning, except that the anticipation will be mixed with a certainty that what I'm dying for will never come, that something will come up, that we'll run into someone we know, that he'll get tired or get a phone call or change his mind. Because when you want something this bad, you never, never get it.

But an hour later, he'll push the screen down on his laptop, and say, "Ok. You want to go?"

And I'll say, "Sure," and my face will be flushing and I'll be worried that I'm sweating and my heart will beat fast and I'll be talking a mile a minute as soon as I open my mouth. I am lovesick. I have known it for months, and I've become familiar with the symptoms. But I've never had it this bad -- the fever is peaking, and I'm going either to get over it or die.

On the walk over to the bar it will be like there is a thin cushion of air between my feet and the ground, and I'll be half floating, half bouncing, the whole way there. We'll get inside and grab and table, and he'll say, "Ok, what do you want?" suddenly serious, like this is a job I've dragged him to. I'll say "A Bass." He'll go to get it and in the moment he turns away my whole body will relax and I'll savor the chance to look at him without being watched, to see the heft of his back and the odd, heavy way he carries his shoulders. I'll see the intent look on his face as he gets the attention of the bartender, and his smile as he carries the drinks back to me, one in each hand. I'll have one of those brief, revelatory moments where the spell will let up for a while and I'll see him as he is: just a guy, a person -- not the hottest guy I've ever dated, or the smartest, or the best. Just a human being, someone I can talk to, sort of nervous, sort of shy. I'll feel all at once like it's my responsibility to put him at ease, and my speech will slow down, but my cheeks will stay flushed, and I'll laugh and tease him a little and look him in the eye, and just once, at the peak of a conversation, I will make an excuse to touch him. I'll feel the fabric of his rough shirt drag against the muscle of his arm, and I'll imagine the skin of that arm uncovered, and my fingers on it. I will be sure -- or at least praying to God -- that the real touch will happen sometime soon.

Later, over our second beer, as he's telling a story I'll watch his mouth move and catch a glimpse of his tongue. I'll imagine my mouth on his and my lips will part without my knowing it. He will look me in the eyes and I will drop my gaze, lift my eyes up to meet his and then look away again, smiling. That imagined kiss will stay between us at the table, and I'll be wet now, touching my neck too often with the back of my hand.

Our knees will bump under the table. Later they'll bump again and I'll hold them there for a second before he takes them away. I still won't know if he wants me. Having been sure before, I'll turn suddenly doubtful. Part of me will want the night to end, just to get it over with, just so I'll know.

"All right," he'll say. "I should probably head back. You ready to go?"

"Yep," I'll say. Yep? Every other word I say is stupid, and it's like tiptoeing through a minefield. I'm exhausted by this. I'm ready to be done.

We'll put our coats on and head out the door. I'll feel already like I've failed. Outside, the bouncing, leaping feeling will come back, like I'm so unmoored I might take a false step, trip, and go flying for a hundred miles.

I'll consider lying about where I'm going so that we can walk a little further together, but at the last minute, I won't. We'll stop at the corner. He'll turn to look at me, the prelude to goodbye.

"Well..." he'll say.

I'll want to run off as fast as I can, to save myself the embarrassment, but I'll remember the last time I did that, and how much I've regretted it since. I'll force myself to slow down. To try and look in his eyes. He won't look at me.

"I had fun," I'll say, and as I finish I'll see a flash of blue.

"Me too," he'll say. His eyes will be like his hands on me. The urge to rush will be pressing down so hard, it will take a huge exertion of will just to keep myself still. I'll keep looking at him, daring him to look away. He won't, he won't. Until finally he will. It's not real. It's not going to happen. It will happen, it won't, it won't, it will.

I'll do that shrug that opens up into the offer of a hug. He will step into my arms. I'll hug him, squeeze a little, test the size of him. The hardness of his chest, the chill of his orange leather jacket against my cheek. His beard will brush against my face and I'll almost want to cry.

I'll step back.

I'll look at him. I'll have never been so close.

He'll be smiling. I know that smile. I can see it right now if I close my eyes.

I'll smile a little. Look in his eyes, look away.

He'll push the bridge of his glasses up with one finger. Smile more.

He'll take a deep breath.

I'll lick my lips.

Tilt my head.

Close my eyes.

I'll be brave.

No, I won't.

I'll be brave.