I check my phone one more time to see if you have replied. I know it’s only been two minutes, but I’m anxious, and refreshing Tumblr every four seconds is not helping whatsoever. Our conversations are always
so intense, so captivating, I don’t think I can ever get the same satisfaction from talking to anyone else. Butterflies in the stomach? No, it’s more like pissed off hornets that are plaguing me. My feelings are building up to a physical hurt in my stomach that just might need pain killers. I bite my lip and check the clock. Sterling silver hands point to 11:07, and I know I need rest. And considering what time it is where you are, you certainly need sleep. Just one more message, I tell myself, and then I’ll tell you good night. How long has it been since I checked, one minute? Close enough. And oh my gosh, I have a message. Before I squeal, I must remind myself that I am not a mouse, and therefore shouldn’t.
You say, “It’s five a.m. Screw sleep. I need you,” and I feel guilty for keeping you up this long. Being six hours off isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but I suppose it will have to work, for the time being. If only air fare from here to England didn’t cost so much. For the two-thousand dollars I need, I would have to take up a second job. That would mean probably switching to night classes, which would turn to reinventing my entire lifestyle. But the ache working its way through me is so strong. Could I really do something as big as that for just a few fulfilling nights? Oh, why can’t the trip be more affordable? I wouldn’t have a problem at all with the flight being $1.50 or something to that effect. That would be wonderful, actually! The price of a hamburger to actually see you? I would love something like that!
Or maybe you could come here. Pool your psychology money and go cheap, perhaps? You told me yesterday that there’s someone you know, a friend of a friend who can get you in the sky for even less. Wait, can we meet halfway?
Would that be a better solution? Or will it simply take tolls on both of us? Where is our halfway point, anyway, in the middle of the ocean? None of this seems to work! What a screwed up world we live in, I re-establish as I go to reply.
“When we finally meet, how about we do so in the winter? Perhaps even Valentine’s Day?” When we meet. Never thought I’d be using those words as often as I am now. “I love snow, and it’d give me an excuse to wear your jacket.” I stare at the un-sent message. Is that too cheesy? I take a moment to evaluate. No, I decide, it isn’t too bad for your liking, but just to be safe, I’ll insert a heart at the end to make myself appear cute. Yes, that works. Satisfaction building, I tap “send.”
At first, I didn’t think you were real. I didn’t doubt your existence, that is, but instead your words. Everything about them seems so Nicholas Sparks-esque, so undeniably cliché that I often find myself looking over each message once more just to make sure that I’ve read correctly. Even then, I can hardly grasp it, so I save them to look at later.
My favorite is as follows: “Your words are like poetry, they fall softly on attentive ears; they caress the heart and ease the soul. I can only imagine the beauty they would exude spoken with your voice, so perfectly formed around the lips designed to shape them into being, from the mind capable of conceiving such beauty.
Any piece you craft will be indescribably heavenly, sweetheart, and I will love it. You are perfect. I need you here with me; my arms ache to feel you in their embrace.”
You have begun to occupy my every thought like a lovely parasite, working its way through my brain. Half of these little figments start with “when I see you”, and at first are only mildly ridiculous: When I see you, we will get coffee. When I see you, we will eat devil’s food cake underneath a Magnolia tree. The more I think, the further they escalate, until every single idea seems to be ripped from a hipster’s blog. When I see you, we will write poetry together. When I see you, we will go underwater basket-weaving. When I see you, we will watch stars in the desert while listening to The Killers. Okay, you brought up that last one, and I love it.
“Oh my gosh,” I say out loud. I forgot to tell you good night. So much for going to bed now. Honestly, though, I don’t mind. It gives me a refreshing feeling to know that you would stay up as late as five in the morning just to see the words I’ve typed for you. One day, I really do hope to see you in person, and run my fingers through your coarse, dark hair. Until then, I will check Tumblr so repetitively, it is alarming. I will memorize your time zone and how your times correspond with mine. I will stand under every lone tree in every park I cross and, for the briefest of moments, feel like you are next to me. Thoughts of you will let me have a peaceful sleep.
And when I wake up at three a.m., I will notice that the pillow next to mine is unoccupied, and I will wonder, why does the Atlantic Ocean exist?
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