Evan LaBrant's Blog

May 17, 2016, 4:39 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

I’m sorry I fell for you.

You, unaware and unassuming, perfectly cute with floral blouse and unfettered breasts; me, lost boy searching the stars for answers to questions God never bothered to reply. My eyes caught your form from my crouch on the curb, where long drags from a cigarette increased my pulse. Or was it your approach? Who knows, it doesn’t matter, really. I feigned nonchalance while you stooped to pet Sir Pounce-a-lot, his black and white torso arched beneath your fingers. It was true then as it is now, when I said, “I never do this, but…” It’s my sole pickup line, because it is only always true. I never do that, but I did. And you said yes to the spontaneous request.

I’m sorry I fell for you.

You, hiding nerves behind sharp blue eyes and a skipping step; me, joyfully observing you from two feet away, loving every laugh and every hint of British from your tongue. I still miss that, by the way, that soft giggle and that sudden outburst of belly laughter. What I wouldn’t give to hear you say “strenth” once more. We sat through awkward pauses while beer glasses tried to out-sweat our nerves; those awkward pauses gave me pause, but I embraced them for once in my life as we stared deer-eyed at each other.

I’m sorry I fell for you.

You, swaying arms in the breeze like a glider or bird, whichever is more graceful; me, joining you in quiet gratitude for the chance to air my nervous perspiration. You insisted on a hug goodnight, and I gladly obliged. Hugs are far too few these days, and yours was a wondrous thing. With a number scrawled on napkin in hand, I strolled away, unsure of my intentions. I tucked that napkin away for three weeks, three weeks another woman held me back while she figured out her love for another man. Had I known, I don’t know what exactly. But had I known what would become, she would have figured it out without me.

I’m sorry I fell for you.

You, an innocent bystander in a story you never saw coming; me, too soon ready to commingle lives and loves and lips. It’s not your fault, not mine either. Maybe it’s mine. It’s no one’s really. You just happened to stumble in when all the stars I queried aligned, and my heart opened like a night-blooming cereus in the warm evening air.


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