I’m in love. More or less, I’m in love with an idea. A suit and a tie that fits effortlessly around all the right places. I’m in love with his shoes, and the size of his feet. I’m in love with his belt, and how it hugs his waist before I can. I’m in love with his hair, and how it barely cascades down his neck, only to be picked up again and styled at the front. It’s dark, and when the light hits it, it shines barely, but enough. His lips, the perfect size for his face, that hold his stubble like a trophy on a shelf. The arch of his eyebrows furrows towards his medium sized nose. A freckle, one…two. That’s all.
Perhaps he is the mere image of what I embody as a dream. Nowadays I’m so focused on who will I choose to guide me through marriage, kids, family life. I forget that maybe I’ve never met them. Maybe there’s a reason that love goes to waste on my tired heart. It’s as if the harder I try, the quicker I fail. So who is he? He is a stranger, and if you had asked me half an hour ago, I’d be confused between love and lust amongst my mental list that I carry, with pros and cons of the familiar.
But it’s just turned 5 in the morning, and I think that I’m in love. But it’s not with Mr. Touchscreen Watch. It’s with the idea that his strong hands might hold mine one day, but I’ll never know because once the flight lands we will go our separate ways. This makes it more dangerous, and the idea of a future with someone unpredictable.
Whether I’m in love, in lust, or incapable of knowing, I’m ready. I’m ready to be…surprised. I’m ready to be accepted, and confronted with something I don’t know about. Someone I know based off of the way they hold a suitcase, may have taught me the lesson that therapists have exhausted themselves over. Why would I stress about something I ultimately cannot predict? I may be able to imagine his hair color, his suit, his lips, but I’ll never know his name, until I am supposed to. And when that day comes, nothing else will matter, and it will feel indescribable.