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I’m thinking of her.
I’m imagining sitting on the pier with her.
Sitting by the fire pit with her.
As badly as I’d like to picture her sitting actually with me, on my lap maybe, I’m content in my vision putting a few inches between us.
I’m struck with the fierce desire, fierce longing, of this girl.
I want to know her.
I want to know her story.
I want to stand beside her and help her and hold her hand.
If she has another spiraling attack, I want it to be me to help her reach the surface.
This feeling came out of nowhere, but I know it as well as I know my name—I want Dylan.
In any way she’ll give me.
“I’m not really… I mean,” she stumbles over her words, “that’s nice of you but I couldn’t ask you to.”
“You’re not asking. I am. Let me hang out with you, Dylan. Let me get to know you. Even if we talk about nothing.”
“It’s your weekend,” she finally says after another pause, and I get the feeling she’s trying to brush it off. Agreeing to shut me up.
Her words don’t come across nearly as laissez-faire as she’s probably hoping for.
“It is. And I’d like to spend it with you.”
I can hear her argument coming, but instead, she settles on, “Okay. When can I expect you?”
