A Mid-Spring Nights Writing
Note: The feelings expressed in this piece have been long silenced, but do to the positive feedback and the fact that this is the only story I have right now, I'm going to post it anyway.
I
My mind is a door: always open, always enduring ceaseless use, sometimes piainfully slammed. My life: average. Like most teenagers, I struggle with parents, significant others and the occasional breakout. Tonight, as with many nights, I find myself lying in bed, dreaming impossible dreams, fighting unbeatable foes (or so the saying goes), and measuring the past day, as well as the oncoming day.
All too often do I think of the opossing gender of my own. One girl in particular baffles me the most, Gretchen Mollenhour. The hold this girl has on me cannot be measured by any device man can conceive. The jaws of life could not rid my thoughts of her beautiful smile and casual glance.
I fear the longevity of my stay in this world is threatened by every word released from her lips, for when they are directed to me, I must make conscious effort to draw breath. When she smiles, my heart races, my blood pressure rises and my eyes dance, drinking from the endless beautry that is her face.
II
To write and scribe every emotion a man feels when he's in love would take hundreds of lifetimes. Along with the happiness and beauty of love, there is ache and sorrow.
For many months I've felt drawn to Gretchen. When I'm around her, I can speak but five words or less. My thoughts are drained from my head and my breathing becomes eratic. I can never express my feelings for her.
Many times have I tried to confide in her how I feel. Many times have I been subtley rejected or ignored. On one occasion I was feeling quite bold and called her, inviting her to dinner. Unfortunately, she had plans for the evening. A few weeks later I wrote a letter to her. In it, I spoke of my inability to find the right words and what I wanted to say. I told her what I liked about her and how I appreciated being around her. Most important, I asked for a single date to conclude the letter. I didn't talk to Gretchen for three months after that.
III
April 22, 2002 marked the date of the Music Makers tryouts. Gretchen was auditioning. I mostly kept to myself that night, not out of nervousness, but more out of sheltering my emotions from the knowledge of being stuck in the same room with her for three hours.
The results of the auditions were posted at the end of the week. Being much more honest than modest on this occasion, I wasn't worried about my name being on the list. However, I was taken aback after reading Gretchen's. Thoughts and scenarios raced through my mind. "How can I possibly evade her for an entire year?" My stomach twisted and tightened, "I can't," I told myself. Mustering what courage I had left, I made my fateful decision.
I tend to stare, to look beyond people when I'm in deep thought. As I approached Gretchen's locker, however, I was in a sharp and focused state of mind.
"Hi," I say. She looks at me inquisitively and mimics my greeting. "Congratulations on making Music Makers. I look forward to seeing you next year." My resolve was waivering, that is, until she smiled at me.
"Thanks," she says. "It's now or never," I tell myself. "I made a mistake and I apologize for it," I tell her, although I had so much more planned to say after that. After I said "mistake," my eyes caught her depthless pools and I lost my composure. She said something comforting afterwards but I forget what it was after remembering her smile. Obviously shaken, I extended my hand with intent to shake hers. "Friends?" I mumble. "Yeah," she says, clasping her hand in mine.
