Missed Connection

Dear Jon -

So I've been obsessively reading the missed connections on CraigsList. I'm thinking about doing some sort of research, just for myself or otherwise, determining what sorts of missed connection posts get replied to and why and what the replies are. But I think mostly what I've learned is that there are an incredible amount of very vague posts which people seem to misinterpret in incredible ways.

I've always wondered if I've just imagined everything between us. And you haven't done anything to help with that. Every time I would think there was nothing there, you gave me some sort of hope. I remember the night I confronted you about it, outside the pub smoking. You led me on, only to tell me an hour later there was nothing. Approach, retreat, approach, retreat.

You weren't at work yesterday. I didn't see you at school today. Where are you?

I miss you, Jon. I have started fantasizing about seeing you and having all revealed. The fantasy:

I show up to school, running late as usual, and you are there standing outside the building. When you see me approaching, you come to me in the parking lot and grab my arm.

I look at you with heart pounding and tell you I'm late for class.

You ask me to come with you. Your face is full of dark intensity, sincerity, insecurity. You narrow your eyes when you look at me, then tighten your mouth and look away.

I say yes.

We go to your car, I throw my briefcase and keys in the back, awkwardly move a pack of cigarettes and garbage from the cup holder to have a place to put my coffee mug where it won't spill.

You roll down your window, put a cigarette in your mouth, offer me one. You move slowly, deliberately, with an awkward grace. I say no. You light and drive, being careful not to meet my eyes when you look behind you as you pull out of the parking spot.

You turn on the stereo and skip ahead in songs until Broadripple comes on. My chest tightens and I screw up my face, hanging my head and saying softly, begging, "Not this, Jon." I straighten, determined, and reach for the skip button only to have you stop my hand with yours. "No, Marie, just..." You pause, frustrated and tentative and afraid. And you start to sing. I sit back and close my eyes, feeling the wind in my hair from your open window, letting the sound of your voice sink into me.

We pull into your driveway before the song is over. We sit, as you sing to the end. You turn the car off and there's silence. It seems like forever, but it's only a few moments. The air is tight and thick. We're both holding our breath.

You turn to me, eyes slow-lidded. "Would you like to come in?" you ask. I'm searching your face, looking into the sparkling fear and anticipation there.

"Alright," I say.

We get out of the car and walk up to the door. You unlock it, open it, motion for me to step in. The smell of old pot smoke and incense hits me. It's dark, sparsely furnished, browns and blacks in the furniture with dark woods. Your little cat runs up to me, mewing, and I kneel down to pet him. I'm terrified, and the cat is a welcome distraction.

I know what happens next, in the fantasy, but it's still too fresh and frightening to write down. As I write this, it becomes more real. My imagination is so vivid, coupled with the emotion you've always instilled in me... The fantasy is innocent, you know. It plays in my mind with the tortured language of unrequited love and longing, but it's not about flesh or blood or carnality. Maybe I'm too much of a coward to imagine you and I that way, or maybe you've always been so sensual to me. Something happens when I'm with you and all of my senses are heightened and narrowed to focus solely on you. Being with you is what art feels like. I wrote a song for you, do you remember?

My husband will be home, soon, and so I'm going to go play my guitar for a little while to get it out of my system. I feel like everybody can see that I'm blown apart over you. I want to endeavot to put most of me back together for him.

Go to school tomorrow. Stop me on my way in and ask me to come with you. Or, if not that, look at me, brush past me, and smile sarcastically. I long to exist for you. I long to touch you.

- M.