Pirouette [h.s.]

chapter 3

// forever is the sweetest con //

cowboy like me  -Taylor Swift

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It's been a full week since the blueberry incident at Dino's and, unsurprisingly, the guy hasn't made a second appearance. I couldn't help but find myself a little disappointed at that fact each night as I closed up the gas station. Probably because his request was just so off the wall that I'm curious about what his deal was.

...Right?

There's no other plausible explanation.

Sure, he was cute, but I'm not like Luna. It's not like I'm ever going to see him again, anyway. I'm not some hopeless romantic, just daydreaming about the day some cute guy comes in and sweeps me off my feet.

I'm realistic. The love of my life is not going to just waltz past me suddenly. We're not going to fall in love on the spot, the moment our eyes meet. We're not going to go on seemingly spontaneous dates that, in reality, they planned for days. We're not going to grow old and sit out on rocking chairs on our front porch with coffee and old, dog-eared books. They're not going to understand me.

Because that's not realistic.

The realistic version is that I'll meet someone that doesn't make me want to completely close off. We'd fall in a monotonous routine of going on dates only on Wednesday nights to the same three restaurants. I'd pretend their jokes are funny when they really make me roll my eyes. They'd propose and we'd have a silly little wedding where I'd be forced to invite all of my estranged family members and Luna. And then, we'd grow old, and I'd secretly despise them for all of their little habits that I once thought were cute.

Besides, love isn't meant for me. Love is meant for people who can express that love right back. It's meant for people like Luna, who don't even have to look to see the good in the world; they just know it's there. Or for people that have been given none their entire lives, but still manage to give it out freely. For people who make up the sunshine and the moon and the pretty green grass in early spring. The people that are a product of all the good things in the world.

It's not meant for people who can barely fathom crying in general, let alone crying in front of someone else. Love isn't meant for dramatic people who always overexaggerate things. It's not meant for rainstorm brains and black hole emotions. For people that vacuum the energy right out of a room. Love is not meant for me.

It means you have to let someone see the deepest, most intimate pieces of yourself. I am genuinely incapable of doing that – like, anxiety attack spirals over that shit. I'd rather scoop my eyes out with a soup spoon than let someone in like that.

So, love just isn't for me. I'm not upset by that or anything, it's just a reality of my life. I've accepted it a long time ago. And it's fine.

If I were a hopeless romantic, maybe I'd be willing to come up with some conclusion as to why I'm so frustrated that he hasn't come back. One that has nothing to do with blueberries at all.

One that has everything to do with how his two front teeth peek out and pull his bottom lip in. With how the little cross tattoo on his hand disappears into warm, chocolate brown when he ruffles it through his hair. How the slope of his nose tapers off like Washington mountains. With the bubblegum pink of his lips and the way his tongue barely pokes through his teeth in an almost imperceptible lisp. With the way his legs cross at the ankles when he stands, focused on a thought, with his eyebrows furrowed together and two little wrinkles diving into the space between.