A psychic’s prediction says he’s already mine but there has been no indication that it is true. The funny thing is when our hands met, the jolt of arousal awoken in me a desire that I haven’t felt in a long time.
The resulting nightmare of actually being near you but not being able to touch you haunted me throughout the rest of the night. That sly smirk you threw me when I referenced your art, made my heart flutter. The connection that it fostered kept me fluttering around you the rest of the night.
But I didn’t, did I? I sat alone, on my phone, ignoring the world most of the time. The music at the bar was loud and my senses were becoming overwhelmed. An ache that originated in my eyes, spread slowly to the rest of my head like the slow creep of death that follows us all. Even if you are mine, you aren’t right now and it leaves an emotional hole in my heart.
I need affection and even the small taste from last night wasn’t enough to quench me.
I sat at a low table in the back of the bar. It was dark and I was invisible except the glow of my phone screen. You were across the bar, sitting with a group of friends I wasn’t familiar with. You greeted me when you first came in, reaching towards me with a brush of your hand, a small spark ignited me the instant we touched. I knew I had feelings for you but the intensity of our brief interaction reawakened a drive in me that I had long buried.
I have kept this drive at bay with the worlds of fantasy I inhabit from my books. I have insulated myself with fictional boyfriends who show desire and loyalty to their fated mates. Even the tv shows I’ve been watching show the world through the eyes of someone who is actually loved.
This leaves me today, with the rain sprinkling lightly against my window, with a deep sense of longing and a twinge of sadness. I left you last night with the most awkward of hugs and I lost the opportunity to press my whole body into you. The chance to breathe in the smell of you. To have a brief memory of what could have been. But alas, no.
My destiny is to be an awkward, old, cat lady spinster for the rest of my life. Alone.
Rosemarie Clark Stories 
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