I am sorry, it is human nature to gravitate towards beautiful things
It was a terrible day at work today. Watching him across the desk, with two computer screens hiding you from view, you wished you shared the same camaraderie he shared with the boss. You wished the boss would give you half the attention he lavished him with. You wished you were not so weak-willed and envious, and were more eloquent or charming or intelligent instead, so that you could hold a conversation without sounding awkward and even leave them amused and bedazzled.
What is it with you and the black shirts? He looks terrific in those and you must take care to remain nonchalant. Yet on the days he wore black you would be doomed for something unfortunate. You are never too superstitious, but sometimes you have to wonder if he was a blessing or a curse. You wonder if you could just sit and talk, not about work but everything about his life stories and his hopes and dreams. You wonder if that is too much to ask, like how you imposed yourself upon this veteran correspondent at Starbucks this afternoon. Can't you have a luxury like that? (But you know once it happens you would ask for more, for the human desire is but a bottomless pit.)
Sometimes you wonder if you are too obvious, grinning like a giveaway loon whenever he talks to you, which is perhaps just once every week. You wanted to ask him so many things, like how his trip to KL was, how he managed so many exclusives with the top dogs, how he ended up here, if it was by chance or choice, if he missed home, if he dreamt of this job when he was little, how he became an Arsenal fan, you would badger him for stories from last year's World Cup . . .
And you can't even muster the energy to be annoyed when the article you stayed back to write was spiked because he said "sorry for wasting your time" and your brain is programmed to process everything he says as gold. Each day you wonder if you are doomed to interact with him in such a setting, professional and businesslike. Everything needs to have a purpose; your relationship to him is defined by these various agendas, without which you would be nothing. You are not friends.
A friend tells you this is typical of you, to find something to latch onto once it switches on something in your brain that causes rationality to malfunction. But you have to wonder how many of these 'phases' you have gone through, really. Why can't something settle? Why do you keep chasing after the unattainable? Why do you always end up looking back in retrospect and brushing off your naivety with a casual laugh? You don't know what you should do. You should not make any move and leave him in peace, so that when the time comes for you to leave you would be nothing but a pleasant spring breeze, leaving nothing but a fleeting touch of warmth upon their memories, gently, shallowly, there and then gone. It is the same goddamned cycle and you think you are already sick to death of it. You dream of going up to him and saying, you are beautiful, you are so goddamn beautiful I don't know what to do, and you should be responsible somehow, even if you are not.
But you won't. And you tell yourself, this is the best way you know how.
What is it with you and the black shirts? He looks terrific in those and you must take care to remain nonchalant. Yet on the days he wore black you would be doomed for something unfortunate. You are never too superstitious, but sometimes you have to wonder if he was a blessing or a curse. You wonder if you could just sit and talk, not about work but everything about his life stories and his hopes and dreams. You wonder if that is too much to ask, like how you imposed yourself upon this veteran correspondent at Starbucks this afternoon. Can't you have a luxury like that? (But you know once it happens you would ask for more, for the human desire is but a bottomless pit.)
Sometimes you wonder if you are too obvious, grinning like a giveaway loon whenever he talks to you, which is perhaps just once every week. You wanted to ask him so many things, like how his trip to KL was, how he managed so many exclusives with the top dogs, how he ended up here, if it was by chance or choice, if he missed home, if he dreamt of this job when he was little, how he became an Arsenal fan, you would badger him for stories from last year's World Cup . . .
And you can't even muster the energy to be annoyed when the article you stayed back to write was spiked because he said "sorry for wasting your time" and your brain is programmed to process everything he says as gold. Each day you wonder if you are doomed to interact with him in such a setting, professional and businesslike. Everything needs to have a purpose; your relationship to him is defined by these various agendas, without which you would be nothing. You are not friends.
A friend tells you this is typical of you, to find something to latch onto once it switches on something in your brain that causes rationality to malfunction. But you have to wonder how many of these 'phases' you have gone through, really. Why can't something settle? Why do you keep chasing after the unattainable? Why do you always end up looking back in retrospect and brushing off your naivety with a casual laugh? You don't know what you should do. You should not make any move and leave him in peace, so that when the time comes for you to leave you would be nothing but a pleasant spring breeze, leaving nothing but a fleeting touch of warmth upon their memories, gently, shallowly, there and then gone. It is the same goddamned cycle and you think you are already sick to death of it. You dream of going up to him and saying, you are beautiful, you are so goddamn beautiful I don't know what to do, and you should be responsible somehow, even if you are not.
But you won't. And you tell yourself, this is the best way you know how.