Is it possible to fall in love every day?
Carrying a table up the stairs to your apartment across the hall.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“No. I’ve got it,” you say with extra effort.
I watch you whip around the corner to your front door. Stubborn and shy. I could fall in love with you.
Sitting at the same table every week. Dress shirt and tired eyes from troubles in the Wells Fargo Tower. With computer databases crashing down upon you, who would have thought you liked poetry? I like that your hair is the color of sunshine. I like that you wave to me when you walk in. It makes me feel like i’m not just serving tables. It makes me feel less like a server and more like a person.
Crazy bike. Crazy hair. Crazy numbers. When you disagree with me, you tell me. When you see me, you smile. And I like that you use my name a lot in sentences: How was your day, Jade? Take it easy, Jade. Get home okay, Jade? I like that numbers mean nothing and nothing means a lot to you. How interesting it must be to have a face that tells a constant lie.
Far away. Interested only when things get interesting. Maybe that’s why you moved to the big city. Maybe that’s why you like the big problems. Maybe that’s why you like the big job and big rent. Sometimes I think it is all useless. Sometimes I think about the lost causes. And then, at those last moments, you call just to call. And I like hearing you roll your eyes while you say, “Oh. My. Gad.”
Blonde. Big. Tank top. Not my favorite shirt, but...your arms look nice so I let it slide. I immediately pinned you as stupid. I guess that makes me stupid, because then you asked questions. You challenged me. You made me define genre in music. And you kept me on my toes the entire time. We were different in little things and agreed where it counted. I worked the entire night, and you stayed to pass the time. I wonder where you are wearing that tank top these days?
Your eyes are tired, but if I stand just in front of you, you open them up for me. I like the way they flirt with colors like gold and green and blue. Every time you look down, I lock onto you eyes, trying to lift them up, bring those eyes up to me again. Like mountains, you look quite beautiful in the distance. And that’s where you are: far away from where you’re standing in front of me. The edges of your lips curve up quickly whenever I catch them getting tired and starting to droop. I try not to look away; I don’t want to give them the opportunity to droop.
Last night we stood under a terrible bright light of a 24-hour store. The aisles were advertising cheap mascara, strange undefinable stuffed animals, and batteries. Music was playing, but without purpose other than to fill a void (how terrible would that place be in silence?). And I would turn to you a few times every now and then. You were rubbing your neck under your long hair. When you saw my gaze, your hand would drop and your lips would raise. It was like you were trying to tell me you were okay, and all I was trying to tell you was how beautiful you looked standing in aisle three.
And I wondered if you could stay calm, stay smiling, stay resilient because you knew how beautiful you looked there standing next to a shelf of cheap magazines. I've never met someone so comfortable inside and outside their skin before.
Everything about you keeps me staring. I wish I let my hand reach out for yours when it wanted to touch yours. I wished I could tell you everything I saw in you. I wish I could show you what I see. But I don’t know how to do this. I’m not good at this stuff. I’m only a girl. Only a writer.
I’m just a girl without a future.
But when I stand there watching you:
Your hands. Your eyes. Your smile. The way you walk.
I don’t feel I need a future.
In fact, I feel I don’t feel I need much at all.