I never asked you.
I first saw you on a Wednesday, at a crappy party. Our eyes met, and my body was electrified. After that, we didn’t talk, just looked. And looked. I would steal a glance, and I would catch you stealing one of your own. The next morning we exchanged numbers. I saved your number in my contacts, but I spelled your name wrong. It was okay though, because you spelled my name wrong, even though I told you it was a palindrome.
I never asked you to call me the next morning. We talked back and forth all day, text messages flying between us. NEW MSG became my favorite words. You electrified me. Your thoughts, your soul. Your face, your body. We made plans to see each other.
The next time I saw you we weren’t alone. A friend was there, and we were once again reduced to thieving, catching only glances. The three of us were adventurous that night, and we climbed up to the top of the lighthouse. You and I tucked our legs underneath the guardrail, and leaned back on the Danger: Electricity sign as our feet and calves hung off the edge of the lighthouse. Your thigh warmed mine, but the seam of your jeans scratched my skin. I didn’t notice, but our legs started swinging in sync. You noticed, laughed, and tapped your toes against mine. The two seconds we smiled at each other were too brief.
I never asked for more than a friend in you, though I wanted more. But we made plans for the next day. You gave me a piggyback ride, and we fell in a heap laughing. The “almosts” hung in the humid air. But we pulled ourselves up, and we moved on. You bought something alcoholic, something cheap, vile, and in a can. We called it Smurf’s Blood, and you downed your can, while I sipped at mine. When we got back to your car you realized you had left your door wide open. You blamed it on me, calling me distracting. I laughed it off, saying I didn’t know what you meant, but I did. Then we headed to the beach. The alcohol had gotten to you, but I was sober. You asked how far I was willing to go, and the clothes soon came off. I wasn’t expecting you to grab my hand and pull me into the water like you did. But then we were close, melded together with your penis resting between my thighs. The water only came up to our knees. I was supposed to be home by 10, but it was soon 11. You were laughing when we got out of the water. We tried getting dressed but to stop touching was too difficult. Somehow we made it to the car, and somehow we parted ways. You kissed me and told me you would pick me up at 8 AM.
I woke up early for you, but you never came. You were hung over, and you were scared. You thought I was drunk the night before, that I was riddled with shame. I wasn’t. I wanted you, and I was just realizing how big my appetite for your flesh was. We met that afternoon, at a diner, and I could see that you were uncomfortable with me. But there was chemistry, and you pointed it out. You asked if I was a confident person, if I could admit I was smart. I was, I could. But then you asked if I could admit I was beautiful. I couldn’t. Then we left, in search for a bookstore. You still hadn’t touched me. When we finally found one, we lost ourselves between the shelves, and our lips greeted each other. You tasted sweet. I smiled when I kissed you. You told me I flirted with my eyes. I giggled, and kissed each of your fingertips.
I never asked for you to love me. We saw each other nearly every day after that. On Valentine’s Day you told me you loved me. You held me for an hour, as we stared at each other, read each other’s souls. My eyes were deep blue, with gold around the pupil. Your eyes were bright blue, solid and flat. But, you responded more slowly and slowly when I texted you, and so did I. You were late more than once. You let me down more than once. Then one day, you told me you were leaving. That you left tomorrow. I protested, I thought you were staying for a month. But you had to go back to work.
I listened to the CD you gave me, the CD that played whenever we drove in your car, again and again. I loved the songs, but the words hurt. You said you would call, and you didn’t. I waited. And then I cried. I felt worthless, used and dumped. You were an actor. I couldn’t trust you. I knew that from the second I saw you. I never asked for your heart, because I always had your soul. It was in your eyes, in the shock that I felt, that we felt, when flesh met flesh. I was angry that you had used me as a toy, that you pulled at my strings, but left me hanging, always always hanging.
But then I remembered: I never asked for anything from you.