What I’m about to say is ridiculous. Baseless. Pathetic. Inane. Insane. That tinkling sound was like the little unicorn breaking in The Glass Menagerie, the sound of a little glass trinket of impossible yearning shattering. For a moment, my hormones and/or my loneliness got the best of me and a tiny sliver of longing slid under my tough skin. I began to wonder about someone who never should have crossed my mind or my threshhold. He was too young, too pretty, too far away from me in experience and emotion. Still, I started to wish.
It is hard to be alone and not become bitter. It is even harder to be alone and not. How can I close my heart when I want to open it? I hear romantic songs and tears well up in my eyes. I watch old couples hold hands and I feel a lump in my throat. I watch movies with happy endings and wish I could get caught in the rain with a man I’m supposed to detest. I have been waiting for a long time.
Perhaps that is why he moved me. Three years without so much as a butterfly in the stomach. Lust is no comparison for hope. The heat of physical desire is nothing compared to the rush of romantic longing. While I can admit that my fascination had something to do with the curve of his lips and his smell, it had more to do with the possibility that he could be more. I was open to it. I can admit it now that I know there is no hope.
I want to be in Rome. I want cobblestones and gray skies, the hush of cathedrals, cool marble, cold air, and many miles between me and him. And everyone.