The instant I enter the room, I search for you.
It’s the first thing I do; I’ve made it a habit.
If you’re not in the room, I spend a significant amount of time thinking about how much I want you to be there.
If you are in the room, I hesitate to approach you. Should I say something, or should I say nothing at all? What if you’re busy or conversing with another?
I approach cautiously, as I always do. I cross my fingers, hoping it goes well.
I tap your shoulder.
You turn, only slight surprise crossing your features as you lay eyes on me. I smile apologetically and immediately regret drawing your attention.
I ask, ‘How are you?’
I am relieved, but just barely.
I ask another; essentially the same question. But now I am flustered. I want to say the right thing at the right time. I want to impress you.
You respond. But it is not over yet.
I ask yet another. I don’t want to be seen as an inconvenient burden.
I ask again, and the tension in my shoulders slowly eases into nothingness.
At this point I’m back to myself again, cracking jokes that are only marginally amusing, rambling like an overenthusiastic mad scientist, and playing the role of a faithful companion.
You make me nervous. You trigger the tingling in my skin. You cause me to doubt the margin of error. You manage to both lower and heighten my inhibitions.
You feed my ravenous imagination and stoke the vast fire of my inspiration.
Isn’t it strange that you have such a great effect on me, yet we’ve never spoken a word face to face?
When the door of the room closes, I’m always on the wrong side of it.