Frustration is never so keen as when the end's in sight but out of reach! A resounding chorus of "Damnit" echoes in my head as I wait for a call, a message, some sign that the obvious is, in fact, real. Years of worst case scenarios pound behind my eyes, and how else could I be? Somehow, this man sneaked into my existence.
I thought we were friends. And we were, or are. I'm not sure anymore. The tie that grew during coffee and phone calls changed to something else. The physical awareness, the sweet sparks of sexual tension begged to be explored. Restraint was provided by wedding bands. No touching then, of the bodies, but no rule against touching of spirits. We were bonded by our passionless lives, by the angst of knowing our marriages were shot, dying on the vine. Somehow, even that grew.
By time and turns, we recognized the other's soul. Like those stupid "best friend" hearts with a jagged crack separating the two halves, we fit the other's cracks and flaws. We push the other, pull and tug and infuriate the other, then hold and soothe. I have never felt so touched. And it terrifies me the same way it thrills me.
He calls me his best friend. Yeah, right. What friends do you lie in bed with, watching the leaves outside my window? What friends do you hold as if you couldn't let them go if you tried? Who do you tell your darkest secrets to, then worry if they still love you? Who do you confess your love to? What makes you think this is friendship? Sweetheart, this is the real thing. How that happened, I couldn't say, but it's irrelevant.
I want this man. In the quiet corners of my mind, I wonder which of us deludes ourself more, he with his friendship, or I with my love. There is no easy answer. Sometimes, I am as certain as the sun. Others, I'm sure I'm delusional. I've tried to tell myself this is too complicated, surely not worth the trouble. And he is an idiot, incurable. Then, when we are together, it ceases to matter. When we are in the same room, the entire universe dissolves around us, leaving a crystallized perfection behind. Everything, for just a while, is in harmony.
I am dying for the day when that feeling can last more than an afternoon. When I can simply collapse into it, and not dread the time I must leave it behind. I want him. I love him. I just wish he knew how much he loves me.