2: train tracks and a cat

note: this is an immediate continuation of part 1: the moment I saw her.

Or at least I thought it was love. ‘Love at first sight,’ I mean, it just wasn’t like how they show it in the movies. Time wasn’t slowing down, she wasn’t vibrantly glowing, there wasn’t some immediate, cosmic connection that caused us to rush away arm-in-arm. Rather, she just caught me staring and said hello to be polite.

‘Caught,’ because it is honest and fair. I saw her and was mesmerized and lost sight of my manners. Her voice, on top of that, made my bones feel less solid. As if they were jelly and I was in a deep lake, only capable of swaying in place. But, I liked it.

The situation had festered in the absence of my attention. I feel most men fear the likelihood that women will view them as predators. I mean, if you just look at me. How could this waif of a man be imposing? I wear khakis and collared shirts. Loafers, even though I'm not near the age where loafers are socially acceptable. The smell of the pine scented soap I use doesn't overwhelm. I have a chronic nervous laugh that's similar in sound to that of Seth Rogen. Despite this, I became aware of her discomfort.

It was embarrassing, as you can imagine, seeing her smile deflate. My body was a full blush. I mumbled an apology and went running. Not literally, as it's not proper to run in the pharmacy. But I left at a brisk pace.

I live in the brick apartment building across the street, as you know. Because of the close proximity of the pharmacy to my home, I hadn't driven. I grew to regret that because, while the walk wasn't a long one, it meant my exit was not as quick as it could have been. It meant I trudged through the slush kicked around by traffic, thinking that my kin. It meant more time to replay the embarrassment of seeing her deflate at my continued presence. It meant steeping in my shame. Still, I shuffled as quick as I could back to the respite of my home.

The apartment, well, it's nothing fancy. Only seven hundred square feet of basic needs. A bedroom large enough to accomodate the necessary furniture: full sized bed fitted with black striped sheets, small dresser to house pressed and folded clothes, moderate sized bookcase to hold my collection of biographies, leather ottoman to sit on when I remove my shoes--not real leather, mind you. A living room that can fit only a loveseat and small recliner, bookcase to hold my collection of science and historical fiction novels, cracked-top coffee table, and a television that's not smart in any way. A kitchen...is this too much information? Maybe, it feels like. I digress.

I made it home without collapsing under the weight of the aftermath of my awkward nature. I remember the yeowls of Fin, my truest-black cat, as I entered. Keys in the ceramic dish sitting on the table by the door, <i>clink</i>. The nearby sounds of cargo trains rambling down old tracks. Coughs.

It would have been wrong to say all of my embarrassment stemmed from my actions. No, it wouldn't be right. It would be more honest to say that it was from my thoughts. Have you, I wonder, ever met someone who changed the way you think? The sight of her sent ripples through my brain, reformed my plans for the future. Those freckles meant we'd vacation in the desert, just to see the stars. Those glasses, I'd give her a copy of something written by Vonnegut for her birthday. Hang paintings that matched her eyes in our bedroom. I'd place another ottoman by mine so she could take off her boots while I take off my loafers. All these thoughts, all this hypothetical future, all just coming from the sight of her.

Oof.