We shared a moment on the sidewalk. You wanted to pass me on my left. I wanted to pass you on your right. Then we both switched sides at the same time, resulting in a continued stalemate. We shared a giggle and a knowing glance, and we stopped in our tracks, both politely waiting for the other to make the decisive move.
We shared, for a brief moment, a mind, a consciousness. For one and a half seconds, every decision we made was inextricably linked. We shared a glance; our eyes met; we shared a life, a love. And then you shrugged your shoulders, raised your eyebrows, flashed a stifled smile, and passed me. On my left. And I, in time, went on my way as well.
But my mind remains consumed with our brief connection, our shared experience, how my entire soul was, for a single flash, open and vulnerable and unabridged, layed out for you to do with as you would. And you took it all in, and weighed all my virtues and faults, all my highs and lows, and decided, “No. No, you don’t get what you want. You don’t get to walk by on my right.” And you passed me. On my left.
Oh, how I wish I could meet you again! Stand in front of you, face that face once more, and ask you to reconsider. To judge me again, to breathe deep my being, and find that I am not the fool you first found me to be. I wish you could see that I am a man, like any other, like even you. I wish for all the world that I had just one more chance, one more second and a half, to lay my life at your feet, and hope that you’d see the brighter side of me, the glass half full, the silver lining.
Also, you dropped your pen, so I’d like to give that back to you.
(But it’s a pretty nice pen, and if I don’t see you in the next three days, it’s mine, dude.)