I first met Sabrina in the winter of 2003–accidentally and when I least expected. I spent a few afternoons per week in the International House of Pancakes for lunch, not because I loved it, but for convenience; close to campus and a pleasurable beach walk, becoming a quiet place of solace. I was emotionally shattered–the word lonely tattooed across my forehead . . . was it that obvious?

She was an IHOP waitress not exceedingly beautiful, but sweet with a bright smile and gentle aura. She talked to me several times and began sitting with me, timing her breaks to join me in warm conversation but I never really noticed her. Over a period of weeks, I opened up to her and  believed torturous painted our discussion–she listened attentively as I told her about my ex-girlfriend.

She said, “You’re such a noble and deep guy. I know you need someone and someone needs you.”

“I hate being desperate . . . it radiates off me. Too needy.”

“No. Not desperate, but kind and loving.”

She reached out and folded her silken fingers into mine; it happened. I noticed her for the first time like a young boy on Christmas morning–the aroma of apple pie, roasted chestnuts–scintillating reverberations spreading wildly–blossoming tentacles through the fabric of my heart. She kissed my hand and at that very moment, I fell in love with the girl it took a month to heed . . . who she truly was.

During this unforgettable span, I poured my soul–filling her spiritual pool with the story of me, but I didn’t know the slightest detail of her. Scared . . . yes; animal lust . . . yes. Her almost homely plainness became a radiant flower; the sound of her voice, her perfume and I wanted her–but that want became need and she knew it. She could taste it. Perhaps I had allowed myself to be languid, falling all over her, dreaming about her . . . fantasizing myself to sleep every night. She permeated my being . . .  I had yet to even kiss her.

I was afraid to say how I felt. Through experience, maybe a reinforcement of bad or unintuitive behavior, I desired to traverse a fresh approach–unexplored territory. My percipience led me to allow a relationship to flourish naturally . . . a tacit attraction, an implied desire unimpeded by too many details–more intention than specific. A real romance I had so longed for.

She had graduated from college and quit her IHOP job, but still met me there. Our romantic conferences became so intense and wondrous, I wanted to preserve us together–locked in time. She said, “I have never in my life met anyone like you, I simply want to be with you all the time. You actually listen to me. You not only love my silly poetry, we converse so eloquently. I have allowed you within my deepest chasm . . . places no other man has enjoyed with me.”

Still, I refrained from taking action until the night of February 5th 2003. We met on the beach beneath tangerine moonlight–embraced by salty breeze. She brought a bottle of Chateau Cheval Blanc St. Emilion Grand Cru 1990, an astonishingly sweet red wine with a voluptuously-textured finish given to her by her grandfather–she said to celebrate our friendship.

I felt a surmounting pressure–feeling almost nauseous . . . my hands trembling. Had I fallen in the friend zone? I demanded an inner faith from the clutches of my heart and told myself no. Our gazes locked, the impending lure of our first kiss loomed heavily–foreshadowing our stellar evening together. Our lips gently grazed . . . a full kiss ensued, my soul soaring through the temple of heaven as I said, “I love you Sabrina,” tears trickling down my cheeks. She pulled away and that familiar look inscribed her face . . . I was beyond mortified.

“What’s wrong Sabrina?”

“Oh Bobby,” she cried, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” I tried to hug her but she rejected me with totalitarian intent. Tears gushing forth . . . both of us shivering in pain.

“I have to tell you something Bobby.”

“What? Whatever it is . . . we can work through it.”

“Not this.”

“What is is it? I love you like I’ve never loved before.”

“I am married. My husband is graduating from medical school tomorrow, and I am pregnant. I am so sorry.”

She stood up . . . an iron wall of realization slammed between us, severing every connection with the coldness of iced razor. Her tears dried and an internal decision had been written in blood. She was over me with lighting velocity.

“We can never speak again.”

“Please tell me one thing Sabrina,” sobbing on my knees, “Did you ever feel anything? Do you love me? Did you once feel love this whole time?”

“I don’t know.”

She walked away, sliding into her car and drove away into the blackness of marital bliss . . . and never turned her head to see me one last time–leaving me a crumpled soul of desolation shivering in hellish agony–an empty shell of lost hope who somehow must get up once more and seek the love I so want. Needless to say, I do not believe in implied love . . . or tacit attraction; still, I do believe in love.

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