I can close my eyes and picture her looking a thousand different ways. I remember her in that tiny, skin fitting red dress; I remember the way she looks after a full day of non-stop work . . . her hair pulled back loosely with stray strands hanging in her eyes. Picturing is the best I can do. The thought of having her scares me, but the thought of watching her walk into the arms of another damn near kills me.
I hate the Pogue. Ever since the night I watched her dance with Detective Cruz, I hate the Pogue. I remember Jordan telling me that she had compared Cruz to the likeness of fungus; I wondered when fungus suddenly became so desirable. Jordan warned me of the dangers of waiting too long; I warned her of the dangers of falling in and out of love. Every time I was falling in, she was falling out. We never seemed to be able to synchronize our emotions; I held out hope for so long, but hope hasn't gotten me anywhere.
I watched them from the darkness of the street. I was glad she didn't catch me in my voyeuristic act; I'm glad she couldn't see how she transfixed me. I was even happier that she didn't see what I could only imagine was a look of heartbreak plastered across my face. I was never able to hide my disappointment. People could always tell by simply looking at my face. I would never be a poker player.
I watched her sway in his arms. She wasn't wearing the red dress; I probably would have been on my knees begging for God's mercy if she was in that red dress. She was wearing low slung, fitted jeans and an equally fitted sweater. Her hair fell freely down her back. She looked so happy with him. Cruz looked equally happy to be with her.
I didn't have the right to be angry . . . with anyone besides myself. She was the one that was ready; I was the one that ran the opposite way. We were always running. She must have gotten tired. Cruz must have offered to walk with her rather than away from her. I did this; I was the one at fault. I was falling in while Jordan was falling in with someone else.
I watched him kiss her. His lips against hers; what happened in a matter of seconds was amplified in my mind. He ran his fingers along the line of her jawbone. She seemed to hold him a little bit tighter. My lungs began to hurt from holding my breath. I could hear her laugh; the most beautiful sound on Earth broke my heart.
I stole away into the night. I hid in my quiet, lonely apartment. I turned on the television to fill the silence. The thoughts in my head did more than fill the silence; their volume made my head hurt. It was three in the morning. I tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. I thought of her; I thought of red dresses . . . I thought of how she smelled when I held her close. I thought about the future that I felt slipping through my fingers. I thought of how big of an ass I had been. I tried to come up with ways to apologize, but I knew my apology would come far too late. An apology would not be enough to align our feelings. I would be left falling in love with a woman too busy falling in love with a fungus.
I had done this.