Our eyes meet across the room, and electricity sparks between us. I’m suddenly all to aware of my body. The heaviness of my breasts as they tried to spill over the top of my corset, the way my heart raced at a frantic pace, the way wet heat bloomed and seeped from between my thighs. I’m primed from a single glance.
But age-old insecurities makes my eyes skitter away. I feel his gaze, but I’m too much of a chicken to give more than a fleeting glance.
That giddy place inside me, that idealistic girl from my youth, wants to shape a fairy tale with him at the center. His sparkling blue eyes and dark hair make him the perfect knight for my daydreams. And lover for many of my lurid erotic fantasies.
I try to shake my wishful thinking. Crafting a happily ever after with a man who hasn’t even approached me is illogical. I didn’t do illogical even when it’s wrapped in such an attractive package.
It was impossible to ignore the attraction that streaked across the distance, but I did. Not because I didn’t want what he offered, not because my body didn’t light up at the hardness of his, but because I had no clue how to respond.
In a romcom a la Katherine Heigl, I’d do something silly and he’d sweep me off my feet. Something more dramatic would have us running into each other in a very Serendipitous type of way. My reality is I don’t respond well and my life is more comedy and less romance. I just don’t give the right signals.
I fiddle with the straw in my cocktail and glance up again. He’s still looking and I’m still steeped in confusion. Is he the type of guy to approach if my gaze lingers long enough or is he the “wait on the woman” type? I give off the unapproachable vibe so it’s hard to tell which is likely.
But I know me, and my lust for him can’t overcome my pessimism or my deep-seated reticence. So instead of approaching him and telling him I want him – want him so bad I’ll ache for the rest of the night -, I finish my cocktail, leave a tip on the table, and stand up. His eyes slid over me like a physical caress and that awareness hits me full force again. At least at I’m wanted tonight. I indulge my imagination for a few long moments before I walk away.
Maybe longing will trump years of uncertainty someday, or maybe serendipity will bring us together. But tonight I’ll slid between my sheets alone and hope I’ll brush my womanly wiles off the shelf next time and maybe have my romantic comedy.
It’s the possibility that gives me hope. The thought that I’m not as broken as I feel like I am is what I hold on to.