You’ve always felt liquid to me somehow. And I’ve been a filter, trying to hold you, but watching powerlessly as you slip right through my fingers.
I think I knew a crush was forming when we’d been working together for two, maybe three, months.
You had a soft spot for the older ladies who came in, especially widows. You always seemed to know when the door was too heavy for them; you rushed to open it. You asked them if they needed an umbrella out to the car. You ran to get them coffees with just the right amount of sugar and cream.
And it was during one of these transactions, with an elderly widow, that I finally realized I had a crush.
“Mrs. Sanders,” you said, “this is an awfully heavy stack of papers for you to carry, especially in the rain. Can I help you to your car?”
Your voice had become something I strained to hear. I found myself walking over to help, without consciously knowing what I was doing.
“Can I be of assistance,” I said. Which felt (and probably sounded) mechanical.
You half-smiled, awkwardly, and handed me the stack of papers. And the three of us walked out to Mrs. Sanders’ car.
As she climbed in, she leaned over to whisper into my ear.
I laughed nervously. She closed her door and drove away.
You and I stood under the bank’s umbrella and you asked, “What was that all about?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said, motioning for us to return to the bank.
You’d better act fast, Missy, she’d said to me, I’ve only met one other man this kind in my life, and I made him my husband. – ©️ 2021 Portia July
Portia July 