Kitchen Confessionals

Lemon Cake Pity Party

You will find me in Brooklyn, at New York's grand university.
Apparently, I am in a one-hour lecture.

Correction.

A three-hour lecture that does not appear to be ending.
Not spiritually.
Not physically.
Not legally.

Across from me sits a uni mate a few desks away who I believe is into me.
He has not said this.
He has not implied this.
He has not done anything that would survive in a court of evidence.

But my mind, creative director of delusion, has decided there might be something there.
And she has a full pitch deck prepared.

Then he approaches.
Ten steps away from me.

I immediately pretend I am not staring directly at the location of his existence.

He offers a handshake.
Not a normal one.
A long one.
A daring one.
A handshake that lingers like it's waiting for background music to swell.

We hold it.
A minute.
Maybe two.

There is eye contact.
Intense eye contact.

I should have worn 3D glasses so you could see the laser beams shooting potential sparks directly into my soul.

And then he says, very casually,
"I will catch up to you soon."

Soon.

A word with no deadline.
A word with no legal binding.
A word men use when they want to leave a door open without stepping through it.

He drifts away like the wind that shook my windows this morning.
Momentarily present.
Rushed.
Gone so fast it's like it never came at all.

A day later, little did I know, I would be waiting on the side of my bed.
Tossing.
Turning.