CRUSH

She brought him chocolates

And was made up like a beauty dressed to kill

On a work day, (for him, no doubt)

Mascara, lipstick and a preppy, glowing, cheerful demeanor

Of playful personality.

On the last day of school

A last prep day for him

The final one

She was coy

Distant but close

Flitting with little objects at her teacher’s desk.

He pondered a hug

Thinking it would never occur

Her flirtation had sustained over 3 years’ time

Culminating at this final day

Chocolates she again gave him

3 expensive packages and kinds

Truffles

Dark with sea salt

And another very rich one.

The day went fast

But not before

She enjoyed his taquitos de ojo

Reflected from his pupil back to her

Of her youthful coy beauty

He would stare and smirk

Her cuteness beyond description

As she explained

Inevitably throwing a pen at him

With mixture of frustration and feigned neutralized anger.

He strategized, how would he trigger a hug

At the parking curb

Where his pickup awaited

And her own SUV

She packed and picked up her own baggage

Nervously commenting on the cluttered floor board

Refusing his advances

To help.

Then she straightened

And closed the passenger door

Can you give me a hug, he asked

“No, I won’t,” she responded

With muffled, firm voice

Extending her hand for a handshake as he had expected

Suppressing resentment,

He took her right hand

Firm it was and tanned forearm

Strong grip and with smooth motion

Attempted to lead, guide her up the 8 inch curb

Her body stiffened but followed his lead up the concrete

He felt her discomfort, resentful awkward

He felt rejection yet again.

Like in times past when touch

Some welcomed and subtle

Others blocked

Like at the cafeteria two days prior at the 6th graders dance

When he and she had formed an arch with their arms

And he at the peak touched her index finger

And grasped it between his thumb and own index finger

And she pulled away

And he embarrassed

Rejected yet another time

And then at the parking spot

He walked away to her driver side door

At front of SUV

Waiting yet wanting to leave

But she extended her arm again

He felt her sense of apology

Her sense of knowing his hurt

He took her hand hesitantly, thinking

Considering rather to hold an offense

Shook it while mustering strength to say

Cheerfully, Okay Sister, it’s been good knowing you

In a Texas accent kind of way

She grinning sheepishly.

“I probably won’t be able to go”

Meaning his Five Italian Retirement Dinner invitation

It’s ok, he said

“But I might go to the reception”

He said, good, I hope you can

Yet knowing she probably wouldn’t,

He would never see her again

His greatest remorse.

Then he walked toward his own

She stopped him with her eyes

Having stepped into the vehicle fumbling with the door

Playing with the dash, the ignition, stalling

Sitting back like a swagger, arms extended at the wheel

Now like a different person

Confident, sexually appealing

“Trujillo,” she said

And he could not remember what she had said

But it was also laden with remorse

Yet spoken with wistfulness and flirtatious, confident independence

Of a woman who could have yielded to temptation

But admirable that she or had not

He turned to go to his pickup

She closed the door and caught him again with her eyes

And voice

“Trujillo, hay tomate una por mi,” cockily, sexily spoken

Yet another on rare occasions he had before heard such tone

Another side of her past perhaps

What? He asked her, knowing what she had first said, yet taken by surprise

“Hay tomate una por me,” she repeated,

(Have one on me)

I will, he responded as cheerfully as he could

Feeling hypocrisy of the greatest kind

Feeling a strong reflex to hand sweep a breath kiss at her

As she looked at him with a beaming smile

But he suspected repercussions and resisted that urge

Climbing into his own vehicle

Feeling empty and stupidly foolish

Thinking he would never, ever see her again.