This is what I want

I don’t want my breath to hitch when I see him, but I do want to double-take. I want him to linger in the back of my mind for a long time after I see him, and I want to feel the slight pangs of regret for not saying anything. When I see him, when I make that fateful glance, I want him to be smiling, boyish and charming, in a way that is unpretentious but maybe a tad bit vain, as if he knows just how charming he can be when he flashes those pearly whites and his lips curl up just so. I want to comment to my friends that he really is that charming and I make a wistful noise of appreciation. I want this entire experience to last a moment — not a second longer — and I want it to fade away, only to ebb in and out during particularly lonely nights, but eventually, I would want him to fade away completely.

I want to forget about him right up until the moment I don’t, the moment when I see him again and immediately recognize him. I want this moment to play out like a movie and feel the palpable inevitability of this meeting. I want to be offered by fate a terse, pregnant chance to make conversation with him, one that, in a fit of daring, or perhaps with the resolute nerve of purpose, say the perfect line for the perfect moment. The line would be lame, but not overbearing, and it would not go unanswered. It would hit the right chord and he would turn slowly and half-smile, responding. I want a conversation to start flowing, and I want it to be friendly and joking in the way that I would consider myself relatively good at making conversation. I want to feel immediately comfortable and know by the recline of his torso and the hovering half-smile that he is feeling the same way. I want there to be the briefest pause, the smallest break in our conversation to indicate that we are about to part ways, and that would give me the daring to ask for his number. I want him to ask for mine as well. I want him to ask for my number and then ask me to call him, even though I am sitting right next to him. In a fit of quirkiness that would only make sense in a fictionalized context, I actually would call him and he would answer with roguish nonchalance and a half-smile blooming into a full-smile, pleased that I had accommodated his silly request. I want us to hold a faux-conversation rife with over-exaggerated pleasantries. I want all of this to happen in a coffee shop, supermarket, or book store.

I want to text him between every significant moment, talking about dumb things and sharing the minutes of the day with him. I want him to share his minutes in return. I want him to send me long novels of a text, to which I would reply with one word and he, with a sense of knowing and a strong understanding of texting irony, would respond in turn with one word. I want to occasionally text him novels and I occasionally want him to respond back with epics and in between these lengthy volumes of messaging data, I want peppers of short, single-word answers, emoticons, emojis, and emotions scribbled out into tiny pixels zooming through the air and into each others’ phones. I want this playing field to be through texting specifically. And at home, as if he knew my schedule and when I would be on my computers, I want him to message me on Facebook. Secretly, I want him to also send me anonymous messages on my Tumblr because he would know how much I dig anonymous messages. I want him to have fun with it too. And I want to message him back, always.

I want him to have a fairly unique name. When I give him my explanation, I want him to make a reference to Oscar Wilde, but I wouldn’t want him to consider himself literary. I want him to be unexpectedly pleased by making the connection.

I want this continue on, an easy friendship gently swaying in the wind like ripe peaches on a branch. I want there to be a soft, prodding culture of flirtation between us, but I want most of that to remain unsaid and hidden behind subtle taps on the shoulder and barely-restrained smiles and lots of raucous laughter.

I want there to be a party or a gathering at some point. A party with a comfortable mix of my friends and his friends and neither of our friends. I want there to be drink and lots of snacks and, despite the target demographic being about 25–30, a healthy sense of a college-going lifestyle with dumb games and the lull of ambient conversational chatter occasionally swelling into an ooooOOOOOHHHH for whenever something interesting happens. I want him to mingle with others, and to briefly touch (bases with) me throughout the evening. I want him to act affronted by my very presence and make large grand, and stupid gestures of surprise whenever he saw me, and I want to be rendered helpless for a couple of moments, bent over in laughter at the absurdity of his body language. I want at least three other girls to eye me with suspicion because of our interactions, and I want three other guys to narrow their eyes at his back as he walks away from one of our run-ins.

I want the party to slowly fade out, with the older crowd leaving first and the younger crowd, including us, lingering for no real reason other than to see how long the opposite (or same) genders stick around. I want the music to soften, for people to find each other and hide away in their corners, some pleasantly inebriated, and others not inebriated enough. I want to be sitting with a group of close friends when he comes by, and I want him to sit down with us, cross-legged. I want everyone to introduce themselves, and for him to easily fit himself into our circle. I want the soft muffles of our laughter and hushed voices to slowly become the only noises in the room. After so long, I want my friends to leave. I want to walk them out, and as I do, I want him to follow and for him to softly put his hand at the small of my back in a way that is effortless and natural, as if my body was just in his way as he reached out to grab something to slightly steady himself. I want his hand to go back into his pocket and I want us to watch my friends drive away.

I want us to stand out in the cold for a little, exchanging some chuckles. I want the cold to blow away our conversation for a moment, and I want all of the warm, friendliness we’d been exchanging over the last couple of weeks come slowly to a tepid contentment of silence. I want there to be an air of uncertainty but comfort, as if we both know what’s supposed to happen next, but don’t want to be the one to initiate. I want to edge closer to him until I can feel the warmth of his side. I want him to angle his body so that I can stand comfortably nestled next to his armpit and hip and everything in between. I want to emit a sigh and smile really big, but I want him to continue looking up at the sky so that he doesn’t see how far my smile stretches. In one impulsive, smooth movement, I want to very quickly kiss him in my favorite spot- beneath the jaw, where the soft skin of his neck meets his jawline. Then I want to quickly bid him a good-night and bound off into the night. I want the last thing I hear to be his faint response, something that is funny and slightly out of place, but with just enough inflection to show that he was caught off-guard.

I want to burrow into my covers like the fattest, happiest squirrel that winter could put into a blissfully content hibernation.

I want to wake up to one of his texts. Something innocuous and only barely giving a slightest hint of any reference to the night before. I want him to invite me out somewhere under the guise of something unassuming and friendly. I want to not be able to make it and schedule it for another day. I want there to be a pause before he responds and then I want him to affirm for a later day.

I want that day to completely catch me off guard. I want to have to rush to the meeting, not looking or feeling my best and being reasonably disheveled. I want to be fifteen minutes late to our appointment, and I want to stumble onto him reading something while casually sprawled out, utterly comfortable and utterly engrossed with his material. I want him to glance up, then start once he recognizes it’s me. I want him to grin big in a way that completely liquefies my heart and makes me mutter out some completely clumsy and awkward response, a stark contrast to the normally on-point banter we usually share. I want him to lead me somewhere, probably one of his favorite spots or even just a coffee shop that happens to be nearby. I want it most likely to be a Starbucks because we would both share an unabashed attachment to the chain despite its numerous corporate ills. I want the coffee I order (dark roast or a latte of some sort) to slowly warm me up and return me to the more confident and reassured version of me that I’ve been showing him this entire time. I want him to be completely unphased and not even notice that I had been off earlier in the day. I want us to continue our conversation and touch on some deeply engrossing topics as well as some completely inane ones, just like normal. I want us to leave the coffee shop, and as I push the door open for him, I want him to grab my hand as he passes through and drags me along with him. I want him to be looking determinedly in front of him instead of making eye contact with me, but I want to be able to tell from his profile that he is smiling and extremely pleased with himself.

I want us to wander aimlessly, continuing our conversations and laughter. I want my hand to get all sweaty and I want to try to wriggle my hand out of his to dry it off, but then I want him to stuff my hand with his into my pocket. I want to make a noise of annoyance and I want him to laugh and then just pull me in a little closer, so that we’re walking fairly squished into each other. I want it to be super awkward, but I wouldn’t want to leave for a second.

I want us to finally get to a place of relative natural beauty, probably with a nice view of the chromatic sky. I want us to just stand there talking for a while. I want him to ask me the question I’ve been wanting to hear for a pretty long time, and I want him to just slip it into the conversation, deft as a bookmark slid into the smooth leaves of a novel. I want to answer after missing one beat, or two, and I want him to smile really big and finally let go of my hand and wrap his arm around my shoulder. I want him to say “Okay, good.”

I want us to walk back, smiling bigger than we have in a long time. I want him to walk me home, any difference in our statuses completely undetectable save for the fuzzy warmth crackling at the center of both of our hearts. I want him to pull me in for a hug before he leaves, but before we break apart, I want to plant another kiss along his jaw. I want him to ask for another one, which I will oblige. I want us to exchange short farewells and after too many of them, exchange light, chummy blows, and then each turn our way. I want him to walk back to his car or the bus or his bike.

And I will be going home.