That following night

So, there I sat again, delighted, with her on the terrace—though only for a moment, because Cupid’s arrows were dipped in poison that night. A pain shot straight through my heart when, completely out of the blue, a foolish figure appeared and as he chewed his gum with his pearly white teeth, he looked at her longingly; he kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t smile like that—not the way she did with me; she was distraught, trying to be delighted, but the glow in her eyes faded.

When she came back to me, she seemed very nervous, a little upset, and said to me kindly, but with deep disappointment in her voice: “I’m sorry, but some friends dropped by unexpectedly; I, I can’t send them away, our date won’t be able to happen,” and then, pulling herself together a bit and sounding more cheerful: “But I’ll definitely come by in October.” We’d exchanged our student addresses the night before so we could visit each other; we didn’t exchange phone numbers—we wanted to keep it real, no digital plans, but in “real life.” But this, this was a massive letdown.

“That’s not for another two months,” I said quietly.

A few drunk customers called out to her. She quickly said goodbye to me and was gone. Our night was too short.

‘And the leaves that are green turn to brown,’ lyrics from Simon and Garfunkel, echoed in my head.

From now on, I am no longer lonely, and yet I feel trapped; I have found something precious and will not leave it at that; the cards are in my hand; I will throw myself into the ritual of the mating dance and fight for it, in my own way.

That’s how I gave myself hope as I sat miles away from her, leaning back in a chair, watching little stuffed birds stuck to an electric pole here in a café in Shittown, hoping the vacation would end soon so we could see each other, in real life and without others standing between us.

Unless I take the train back to the coast and try again—I, who want it so badly and am so afraid to dare, to open myself up to that, to what I’ve seen fail so many times before.