These.

(Written October 30, 2006.)

I was on edge. The icy wind, biting cold, and that charmingly obnoxious, beautifully aggravating contradiction of a boy might have had something to do with it.

He had agreed to walk me home, and had lent me his mother’s ugly fuchsia earmuffs as some sort of recompense for my help with his Hemingway paper. Helping him was hardly a chore. I was addicted to post-Great War authors and inhaling his cologne.

We set out just as the sun was dunking itself into the Key Tower. An Oreo into a glass of milk. He exhaled cigarette smog-like breaths into the blue night air. I remember liking the way his hair looked under his hat, smashed against his forehead that way. My cheeks went numb.

We mused about the fantastically monotonous things that close friends muse about; I tossed aside every word out of his mouth and exchanged them for white noised infatuation. He said something terribly insightful. I fidgeted with my too-small gray mittens and chucked a sarcastic grenade of a remark his way. He laughed as it exploded in his face.

We were awkward after that. I kicked a snow mound and fumbled around for something (anything) to say. He was thinking, which was never a good thing. I watched helplessly as he studied my face, clicked into serious mode, and parted his chapsticky lips to say:

“Do you ever wonder why life is so fragile?”

Nope, I said, taking a gulp of snowflakes and avoiding his eyes, which developed the tendency to shift into this uncomfortable and intense gaze at the mention of anything partially momentous.

“Like, why humans were made so vulnerable, and breakable, and that sort of thing. For instance, right now” – he smiled – “right now I could step around this corner and an angry mob could just -- mow me down.”

I suppressed a giggle.

“Just, you know. Come flying out of the alleyway with torches and pickaxes and nail guns, angry about ... a half of a degree drop in the temperature or something.”

I bit my lip and grinned.

“No, but seriously, Lynds. It’s just like: babies being born with these God awful incurable illnesses, children starving worldwide, adults developing cancer -- I feel like it’s a miracle I’m still alive.”

I’m glad you are, I said, daring to meet his eye. Alive, I mean.

“Me too.”

We had a Moment then. One of those Moments where the world slows down, and everything you felt connected you to that person becomes redefined, and beautiful. And he wouldn’t let go of my gaze.

Charming as it was, I was itching to kill the cheesy sentimentality. So, I broke eye contact and chucked a block of ice at his head. He responded by bombarding me with an endless wall of snowballs, until I couldn’t take it anymore and cried Uncle.

Breathless and bemused, he spoke again:

"You know, you're not like other girls. You're ..."

Thoughtful?

Insightful?

So terribly witty that you’ve become addicted to my words?

Passionate? So arduous that it makes you crave that same passion with every fiber of your being?

Am I beautiful? (Oh, tell me I’m beautiful!) So exceedingly pretty that no other woman in the world could possibly compare?

Spontaneous.

Brilliant.

Lovely.

Tell me that I am someone you trust with your life, someone with whom you've found meaning and understanding.

Dance with me in the snow, all the while shouting at the top of your lungs that I am the most inspiring creature you’ve ever laid eyes upon.

Make me aware that one look in my eyes makes your heart pound so hard, makes your head feel so light, your stomach churn so violently you thought you’d never experienced life before!

Whisper to me that my very existence makes yours a bit more bearable.

And with a kiss (on this ugly gray street corner), tell me that I am amazing.

Surely that's the word you’re looking for, isn’t it?

"...weird."

Oh, I said. My eyes found their way to the pavement; my heart bellied up and gagged me in the throat. He was grinning, and the best I could do to cover up devastation was squeak out a insignificant ... Thanks.