That Moment

We are swimming in this crowd of strangers, of faces I’m suddenly finding myself looking at as an excuse not to look at you. You walk quietly beside me, your arms swinging dangerously close to mine; and when the occasional person who wants to get past us unintentionally shoves you toward me, some of your fingers meet the skin of my hand, leaving a trail of a slight tingle, resembling a kiss.

I get a good enough reason to look at you. You give me one of your awkward smiles—eyes twinkling, teeth bare, cheeks sinking into that dimple where I’m sure you hide some of your secrets. I give out a small laugh, a constricted sound somewhere along annoyance, embarrassment, and frustration. It’s not one of my genuine laughs; it’s a laugh that I unconsciously make when I want to say something and decide against it.

We walk, but now I can’t take my eyes off your hands. Your hands are the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen, and I keep coming up with excuses to touch them without you suspecting that I want to. I love your long fingers, and I often dream of them entangled in mine. They must be soft and strong and safe. That’s how you make me feel. Safe. I love your clean-cut fingernails too. They tell me so much about you as a boy—how different and how strange and how appealing you are to me. I’m probably drawn to your silence, to your almost hateful indifference, to the peace that emanates from your presence. But what I love, most of all, is the protrusion of veins that snake from the middle of your arm to the point where your fingers start. I’ve always had a thing for them—not exactly a fetish, but a longing or a wish or an out-of-this word fixation. They are what caught my attention. They are what makes me see you differently from anyone else. They are what makes you a man in my heart. They are one of the many reasons why I love you.

Silence. People say it’s sometimes comforting, but it never is between you and me. Everything else—the voices of people, the whoosh of paper bags, the electric creaking of escalators, the impatient brush of shoes against marble, the indistinct buzz of the outside traffic—is drowned out, sucked by the thin thread of space between the right sleeve of your black shirt and a disobedient strand of my hair. And now all I can really hear is the sound of your jeans when they collide when you walk, the gentle, seemingly calculated steps your slipper makes on the floor, the beep that the keypad of your cell phone produces when your fingers fastidiously press on them, the occasional huff of your breath. And suddenly, it looms visibly, so unmistakable, so clear. It’s the cruel distance between us.

“They’re not coming.”

You manage to say it matter-of-factly, but there is a tinge of disappointment in your voice. Maybe not a tinge. You’re probably very disappointed that you’re stuck with me, that our other friends couldn’t be with us. You probably don’t want some friend or acquaintance to see us together because you know they’ll assume we’re on a date. A date. Will you ever take me out on a real date?

But I guess I’m not really your type. Compared to other girls, I don’t really think I hold a candle in the physical department. That’s what kind of sucks though. You’re not exactly my type either, and here I am, devouring every nicety of every moment, desperately rummaging my brain for something cool to say, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear like a crazy, unbelievably obvious, lovesick teenager. But I guess that’s why I know my feelings for you are real. I don’t care anymore if I slip into one of those helpless romantic archetypes. I don’t care anymore if I’m sounding like those girls I hate. I don’t care anymore if you’re nothing like those boys in sappy young adult fiction novels that I secretly love. If it’s you—to hell with all those. I don’t care anymore.

“Okay, so do you want to go home?”

“Do you?”

Here you go again. Letting me decide. Always letting everyone else decide. Sometimes, I hate you for that. Why can’t you just tell me you want to go if you do? Why won’t you tell me you want to stay with me a little longer if you that’s what you want? Why aren’t you trying? At all?

“Not yet. Let’s walk for a little longer.”

I know that when “a little longer” has passed, it will have passed. So I swallow whatever holds me back and boldly take your arm in mine, pretending to drag you away from the crowd. I let the touch linger for a moment and then I pull away, knowing it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t seem to mind the contact, but I know you’ve probably analyzed it. I want you to analyze it. I want you desperately to know that every second of my existence right now—with you, with the consciousness that I could just lean a little close and feel you, with the possibility of so many wonderful things hanging between us, with the world rendered unfamiliar, with this feeling threatening to free the words my pride has worked so hard to contain—is that one prayer God has finally answered. This is the dream that I know will fleet away before I get the chance to wake up. This is the moment that will too soon pass. This is where time finally stops, long enough for the words to form themselves from the silence. This is where I will love you always. And this is where I know you will break my heart.

“Let’s go home.”