Magic in Costa Rica

Fly in a Web

At this time, I must once again derail the plot of this story to explain an important concept to the reader, whom I am concerned may not fully grasp the gravity of my emotions at this juncture. I apologize if my language seems too formal, but when I describe things that are so complicated, I must be as specific as possible, so as to convey my ideas with as much precision as I possibly can. And this was, undoubtedly, complicated. At this point in the story, my feelings towards Matthew were so complex, so layered, and so troublesome that, the joy I experienced was matched only by my suffering. This phenomena is best explained by detailing a sequence of events that occurred every time I saw him.

Before each encounter, I would grow anxious. I knew that I had to remain calm, and as professional as was necessary. I knew that if I crossed a line, it would be him who would suffer the consequences, and I placed an enormous pressure on my shoulders to not let myself cross that line. Now, to the reader, the line may seem more obvious that it actually was. Let me clarify one thing: the line was never physical.

As much as I may have daydreamed about what it would feel like to hold his hand, to kiss his lips, I never contemplated actually doing so. The thought of any physical relationship between he and I, even a hug, even a handshake, was almost unimaginable for me at the time (emphasis on the almost). The line, in this case, was verbal, and emotional. At what point was our conversation simply witty banter, and at what point did it verge on flirting? When I showed him my writing, at what point was it purely professional, and at what point did it become too personal? The problem for me, was that sharing my writing with anyone always felt extremely personal. I always felt like I was crossing the line, even when I wasn't. That was why it was so hard for me to distinguish between the imaginary line, simply a boundary based on my inability to be vulnerable, and the actual line, the point when I risked giving something away. Before each of our meetings, I was forced to contemplate my strategy. How could I stay vulnerable, and at the same time, not give anything away? How could I be emotional, while at the same time, not be honest about the emotions which I was feeling in that very moment? So you can see that my anxiety was not unfounded.

Then, during our meetings, my feelings could only be described as euphoric. Every smile, every laugh, every sarcastic comment, every sincere comment, every moment, flowed through my veins like a drug. All I wanted was to stretch every second into an eternity. All I wanted, for the rest of my life, was to sit there, with him, in his office, talking and working. While he was looking down, scrutinizing the words on the pages in my folder, I watched his face with intensity, trying to burn it into my memory, as if I were afraid I would forget what he looked like if we were separated for too long. I studied the thick rims of his glasses, the unruliness of his hair, the crookedness of his ties, the cadence of his speech, the soft timbre of his voice, even the way he held his pen as he made corrections to my work. I was intoxicated by him, and I was addicted to him in so many ways. When the bell rang, I left his office floating on air, lightheaded and dizzy with love.

However, as wonderful as the high of being with him was, the crash I experienced after the fact was even worse. Each night after our meetings, I lay in bed and was tortured as I contemplated another day of existence without him. I could not sleep without conjuring the image of him in my mind as I closed my eyes. I could not eat without wondering if he was eating at the same time. In fact, I couldn't do anything without wondering what he was doing at the same time. Worst of all were Thursday nights, when I was forced to face the harshness of four whole days without his presence. During these breaks, life seemed meaningless, and I wondered, as I numbly went through the motions of routines that used to bring me joy, if it was worth it: chasing a love I could never possess.

I was more than aware of the damage I was inflicting on my own, fragile heart, but I couldn't help myself. The only time I could be drawn out to reality was when I was with Carla or Mark, or occasionally at work. Otherwise, I was thoroughly absorbed and incapacitated by my heartache. Often times, I was consumed with feelings of guilt, and even more often, of stupidity. How could I be so naive? How could I be so ignorant as to even think for a second that he could feel the same way I do? I tore myself apart from the inside out trying to convince myself it was all in my head. But as much as I loathed myself for spinning this web of joy and grief, this tangle of hope and despair, I couldn't help but want to remain ensnared in it for as long as I possibly could, because here's the other thing: I knew it couldn't last forever.

I was always conscious of the clock ticking down on our time together. I would calculate the number of meetings we still had left in the year and tremble at the prospect of another long, empty summer. But I'm getting ahead of myself. For now, I was just a lovesick teenager, still in her first week of junior year, only just beginning to understand the complex anatomy of this exquisite pain.