Good Morning Lilah

3.

3.

It's Sunday morning and once again I'm in my green armchair, opposite Raj who is in his green armchair. Today, I'm snacking on a scone and Raj has his usual green tea. Today, Lilah Tov is working, making it extremely difficult for me to enjoy getting nothing done. Technically, she isn't the one physically, forcibly preventing me from blissfully wallowing in my unproductivity, but my perception of her seemingly distracting proximity and presence is what's doing me in. I just can't take my eyes off of her. Every time she moves to open the register or pour some milk into a cup or wave as a customer walks away, my gaze is involuntarily drawn to her, unable to look away.

I would say that the reason I can't look away is because she's so beautiful. But that's not entirely it. I've spent my fair share of time soaking in Lilah Tov's beauty, and while she has grown into an even more refined, defined, and divine beauty, it's not shocking. If I were seeing her for the first time, yeah, maybe her beauty is what would solely captivate me. But I've already moved past the stage where all I can do is gawk at her because the girl has lengthy legs and long, dark hair and sharp bone structure and enchanting eyes. (Damn, those eyes!). Now when I look at Lilah, I process that, yes, she's an extremely attractive girl. But that's more of a base reaction.

I can't stop looking at Lilah because I'm roped in again. She's here, and because she's here, I have this sudden urge to know everything about her. I want to know her thoughts and her fears and her aspirations and her anxieties and her joys and her EVERYTHING. It's a compulsive desire. When I see Lilah, I just want it all at once. She is a deeply fascinating girl, and when she scrunches her face up as she accidentally presses the wrong button on the espresso machine or when she parts her lips after a particularly long stint of facial impassivity, I just want to know everything that's flowing through her mind. It's crazy. And I know it's crazy, but I can't help my impulsive need to know. Even when we were younger, it was like that.

She was always the quieter one, which meant that she wouldn't fill up silence with awkward conversation in a blind attempt to be courteous. I, on the other hand, could not keep my mouth shut. I was always too vocal about everything, in part because of my nerves. But Lilah. Lilah was a stone, keeping her silence until she had something worth saying. That meant that a lot of the time, I was kept guessing about what exactly was going on in her head. She wouldn't tell me, which made my longing to know even stronger.

"She is rather beautiful," says Raj, noticing my stare.

"She is," I agree.

"A little harsh, though. Not a soft beauty."

"Definitely not."

"Did you ever love her?"

"Yes. But I was never in love with her."

"Do you still?"

"Still what?"

"Love her."

"I think I love the idea of her. The idea that this beautiful, interesting girl was the first girl I ever made love to. I love that she wasn't the expected girl."

"Like Ellie?"

"Like Ellie."

Suddenly, I can't continue this conversation with Raj because I'm caught observing Lilah interact with a customer. He's taller than me and has a well-groomed, blonde beard. (She would like guys with beards). He also has a man bun, which makes me want to gag, but it aligns perfectly with Lilah's boy trajectory. He probably has one of those dumb, string bracelets, too. Total granola bar. I bet he'd do the Appalachian Trail with her.

Lilah's leaning in, across the counter, and she's smiling. It's a small, flirty smile—the type she's prone to giving when she's interested but still wants to reel you in. She's smiling at him and he's smiling back, baring all of his perfectly straight, white teeth. He probably goes to my school. Or maybe he's in grad school. Definitely a science guy. Or maybe liberal arts. He could be an English major. Or philosophy. There's no way he's business, though. Unless, of course, he has a startup for something earthy and hipster like footless shoes. His parents have to have money, though—that's for sure.

She brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. The guy laughs at something she says, and her smile grows. All the signs are there. And then he reaches for something in his back pocket and takes out his phone. He says something, hands it to Lilah, and with a shift in her smile she accepts the phone, almost certainly entering her digits. Locked and loaded, she has it down to a science.

The guy takes his phone back and then says something to her. She nods her head and then his hand brushes over hers as his head tilts up towards the menu. He orders. Lilah winks and whisks away to go make his black tea or shot of espresso or, with this guy's charm, he probably just ordered a freaking Turkish coffee. He's slate smooth.

Lilah returns with a paper cup and a bagged pastry. She rings up the transaction and tells him how much it'll be. The guy slides over a bill, and when Lilah goes for change, he stops her, probably tipping her a solid three bucks, unless it was a twenty, but thirteen seems too much to tip a girl you're trying to woo. Thirteen seems like you're buying her, whereas three says, "I think you're cute. We should go out for drinks some time." Lilah grins and puts the cash in the tip jar. Yeah, it was totally three.

The guy says one more thing before claiming his beverage and bag and nodding his head at Lilah. She winks back. I turn away.

I'm gripping the armrest of my chair, because that was a moderately painful interaction to watch. I haven't technically been romantically or sexually linked to Lilah in two years, but I'm still jealous. Watching her brazenly flirt with a motivated mountain man made me downright jealous. Obviously, I have no territorial hold on her. I unwillingly gave up my stake on her when she walked out of my life for good (and ultimately for the better). Lilah would probably say that she was never mine to begin with, because girls don't belong to men because of feminism and freedom and all those amendment rights, but she was still mine. And now she's not.

It's hard watching someone who was once yours interact with someone else who wants them to be theirs. I shouldn't be jealous. But I am. It's only natural, I'd say.