History

I look into his eyes and feel more alone than ever. He's cute and might do. But all I can think about is all the work, and all the history I'd have to explain to get him there. Then, what if he's not right? What if all that work is in vain?

He stares back at me. I can't. He's missed so much of my life already; I could never forgive him for that. When I look at him, he makes me feel old. He does look nice. Nice – that's the best I can hope for? If he was my type, he wouldn't approach me. Our exchange of glances would be the beginning, middle, and end; the perfect relationship. If I then saw him later, we'd have history. Our hearts would glow at the familiarity of 'remember that one time.'

But even now, he's looking at me like he knows me. He's too old; I don't trust him. Older men scare me with their knowledge. They've done everything I've done, thought everything I've thought, and understood everything I understand ten or fifteen years ago. The fact is he probably does know me. Perhaps that's scarier.

I want to walk up to him and say, "Today, I finished that project I've been working on. You should come over and see it." I want him to understand without explanation. I want him to come see my masterpiece, marvel at its genius, and say, "It's beautiful. I wouldn't expect anything else from you." Then grab me and unwrap me on the bed. He'd know everything I like and to what extent.

"Excuse me," he sits down beside me, "I saw you from acro—"

"You're only just walking into this film and it's halfway over."

"That's okay. I've seen it before; I just forget how it ends," he says.

I didn't expect that. He's already written our history. It doesn't even matter if he's wrong.

He sets a cup of coffee down in front of me, "Here. Just like you always like it. A cup of darkness. Black with one sugar."

"You forgot. I like it just black." I enjoy playing this game with him.

"Yes, you always felt your coffee should be a reflection of your soul." Funny, he's almost right. "But what I brought you is more correct. On the surface, it looks just black, but inside there's a certain sweetness."

This line, from anyone else at any other time, would have been laughed at. But from him, now, I believe it. Or maybe I just want to.

"Do you remember that we have a date on Saturday?" He wasn't so confident to come off as arrogant or expecting.

"Yes," I said, "but I wouldn't call it a date. You were just going to come over and look at that project I've just finished."

"Ah, yes. Your masterpiece."