I’m waiting for you to come and pick me up feeling mildly guilty for not having a car and making you always drive.
We met under supremely strange circumstances.
We met on a chance.
We met while I was drunk and you were crying.
There is roughly twenty minutes between the time I finish writing this and you picking me up.
There is a thumping in my chest.
There is an overwhelming sensation running through my body. I have to go back and check my list of emotions printed out for me by my counselor; increase my vocabulary and finally describe if and what I am feeling. There is a feeling, and that feeling is strong.
I’m entranced by you. Frankly, by most circumstances, we should have never met. We probably wouldn’t even be friends. We have a varying amount of shared interests. Nevertheless, when we talk, we don’t stop. You make fun of me and I revel in it. You say words and I listen to every one of them.
When you laid your hand on my chest while tightly crawled up against my body, feeling the warmth emanating like the steam out of a sewer drain, feeling the slow hesitation in my stilted breath, feeling the irreverent beating of a physical heart, I drew in the most curious of emotions in a raw form: happiness.
Not the type that comes from watching terribly good movies.
Not the type that comes from reading a delightful book.
Not the type that comes from insulting someone I don’t like.
Happiness that I cherished, happiness that I believed in, happiness that felt tangible.
We swap stories and emotions and lifeless sentences through a pixelated core set of 26 letters and about 6 units of punctuation. We swap flirts and emoticons through waves sent in the air. We swap digital glances.
All in all, I’m happy. I’m nervous. I’m feeling that that good thing I was trying to force came from the most unlikely of places when my head was turned the other way. I’m feeling that that undivided attention and giddy remarks came from a place I did not expect, but I do not want to abandon like a final soldier holding the ranks back on top of the hill.
I’m feeling, and that counts for everything.
Like the wind rushing past your ears when your bicycle no longer needs to switch gears, like the air surrounding us, like the wind rushing past your body when you stand on top of the largest, most beautiful mountain that only Atlas could have ever imagined.