In my own world I laugh at the little things. I'm especially intrigued by water behavior. I love the slow bubble eruptions in a water cooler being drained for my thirst. The water pressure shifting can make me giggle at the dancing water stream in a sink because faucets are meant to behave. That's what they are designed for. It was one of those moments when I was washing my coffee mug on Friday when I giggled, then realized he was right behind me. Tall, handsome and maybe amused. I couldn't tell. Immediately I needed to explain it was the sink making me giggle and I was not actually a little insane. My curtain call came with, "I promise I'm not trying to be weird. I'm just really good at it."
"That's cute."
All he said was, "that's cute." Maybe it was his slightly lowered voice that is less nasal and slightly husky. It was the voice I wouldn't mind hearing my name in. It's not the higher pitched tone of business and conquest in the world he navigates and has conquered. I would replay that moment over and over in my mind and a few conversations all weekend and into this week.
What part was cute? Was it my geek-tacular response? Was it how obviously I was affected by being alone in the kitchen with him? For a room without a stove, it was pretty hot to me. Was it my flirting? I'm not even sure if I was, but I might have been and it might have been one of those automatic responses to him that I had no power over. Where did this part of me come from?
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I thought I had drowned her in the late night tears when we were supposed to be sleeping after an argument. I was afraid to show a little too much interest in any random person because of the one time my husband started a fist fight with a perfect stranger that had the audacity to smile at him. He thought I had a relationship with a man I had never seen. I thought I suffocated her in his insecurities that he wasn't enough, although he always was. I choked her out, knowing he would never even try to control his flirting because he thought that was part of his character, inherited from his grandfather. It was okay for him, but I tried to kill that part of me.
I thought I killed her when I hid behind our relationship and now I see her peeking behind her fingers. She's afraid of me and I'm a little intimidated by her. I remember her confidence and willingness to approach just about anyone. I remember never needing to buy my own drinks at bars and clubs because she was loved and strangers would fall over themselves to be her or be near her. She was everything he wanted until she was too big to contain. So I thought I killed her, but hers is a friendship I would love to rekindle.