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Here’s something you have to understand: I’m never going to give this to you. It’s going to sit in the drawer of my nightstand, the one that sometimes sticks when you try to open it. I’m an artist, and I’m trading in the paintbrush for the pen just for today. Because I don’t think there are colors that exist for what I feel, and for that matter, there aren’t words either. But there are some that come close.
You’re not mine. You’re taken and I have to accept that. You’re not mine to call at midnight and ask to go for a New-York knock off slice of pizza. You’re not mine to have an impromptu Wes Anderson movie marathon with on the weekend. And you’re certainly not mine to hide behind while a renegade bat lets loose in the office.
That doesn’t stop me from day dreaming though. We talked about Harry Potter today and I imagined the both of us reading it together on my bed with the quilt my mom made me spread out over us. It covers my toes but not yours because your legs are so damn long. So you keep your socks on and the cotton tickles as it rubs against the arch of my foot.
Sometimes I begin to think that you doubt certain olive-skinned, pouty red-lipped aspects of your life, and I anxiously think this is the beginning of something that is long overdue. It never is. And as tired as I am of having that small bit of hope crushed every time I see your hand brush the small of her back, I can’t and don’t want to stop. I’m still going to be your friend, and give you the smile I only save for when I see you in the morning, and steal glances at that messy shag of hair when I know I won’t get caught and even when I know I might.
We have limited time left. If it isn’t Karen, it will be some other woman with enough wit, beauty and courage to sweep you up in something close to love. Then I will be the one offering to drop off Save-the-Dates and giving helpful suggestions on how to throw a wedding and planning a vacation on the opposite side of the world so that I don’t have to watch you give your word to someone else.
I don’t really know when I started feeling the way I do. I have a feeling it was my first week here, when you pulled up an empty chair next to me in the break room so I wouldn’t have to sit alone at lunch. You defended your ham and cheese sandwich after I asked if you were back in the sixth grade with your brown bag lunch. We wound up not eating much because we were too busy taking a great deal more than an hour for lunch. If I had it my way, we would have been there well into the evening and kept the conversation going over a Cup of Noodles dinner under fluorescent lights. I’m pretty sure you were thinking the same thing.
I felt like we were back to being partners in crime when we played that prank on Andy. Your eyes had that glint of mischief and determination that I hadn’t seen since you came back, and it made my heart swell to see it once more. After months of feeling disconnected from you, one cell phone hand off put us back in sync. And just so we’re clear, you’re the only person I could ever stand in giant sombrero with and not feel like an idiot. It was actually the best I felt in a long time. That is, until, I found out not too long after that you went home that day and belittled that night in May down to nothing more than a simple kiss. Now, I remember that night pretty clearly, and can tell you that it was anything but simple. Engagement rings and dark offices and the dig of your desk into my back is not simple.
Do you have any idea how much it hurt for me to bite my tongue while you talked about your problems with Karen? To sit there and actually offer advice on how to make things better? I’m sure it felt a little something like all those times you watched me struggle with Roy, and trust me, if it was even a fraction of the hurt I felt listening to you…well, let’s just say I wouldn’t wish that hurt on anyone. Even Dwight.
I see you everyday, twisting and contorting yourself into something you never wanted to be and it kills me to see it. Because every day that you change just a little bit more, a little bit more of that past we had is erased. And sooner or later all will be left is an old teapot filled with little artifacts of time past. All I want is for you to be happy, and if you’re happy being the regular guy with the regular job and a regular relationship, so be it.
But if (or when) you decide being regular just isn’t enough anymore, you don’t even have to tell me. Lean on my desk, eat a jellybean, get a grape soda, roll your shirt-sleeves up. I’ll notice, and I’ll understand.
Story Notes:
Based on a letter I wrote to my "Jim" but never sent. Enjoy!
Chapter End Notes:
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Wendy Blue is the author of 18 other stories.
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