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In Literature, Writing and Blogging • 1 min read •
Until we met
<p>“I’m just being delusional,” I tell myself as I watch him go on and on about the liver.</p><p><br/></p><p>He’s wearing his native again. Green this time.</p><p><br/></p><p>I watch him speak with the other lecturers, and then I notice it—</p><p><br/></p><p>a green watch on his wrist.</p><p><br/></p><p>Matching.</p><p><br/></p><p>I smile to myself.</p><p><br/></p><p>As he speaks, he brushes a hand against his chest. His not-so-fancy sandals catch my eye, a strange little contradiction to everything else he’s wearing—and somehow, to his eloquence.</p><p><br/></p><p>I watch him a little longer than I should.</p><p><br/></p><p>Only if I could marry this man.</p><p><br/></p><p>I know we’d never wear matching clothes. I’d gag if he ever suggested it. We’d probably argue about something ridiculous, then talk until we forgot what we were arguing about.</p><p><br/></p><p>I know we’d never run out of things to talk about.</p><p><br/></p><p>I know we’d never go to bed angry.</p><p><br/></p><p>I know we’d never happen.</p><p><br/></p><p>And yet, there I am, watching him explain the liver as though he has personally discovered it.</p><p><br/></p><p>He moves from one point to another, making connections that seem so obvious once he explains them.</p><p><br/></p><p>I listen.</p><p><br/></p><p>Or at least, I tell myself I’m listening.</p><p><br/></p><p>Because somewhere between the liver and whatever point he’s making now, I start wondering how many other things he knows.</p><p><br/></p><p>How many conversations could we have?</p><p><br/></p><p>What would it be like to sit across from him and not have to pretend I wasn't interested?</p><p><br/></p><p>I look away.</p><p><br/></p><p>Enough.</p><p><br/></p><p>I’m just being delusional.</p>

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