All the things I wanted to say

I send a text to an unavailable woman on whom I have an unfortunate crush.

Hey. I haven't seen you in a while. (I love you. You're beautiful. Be with me.) Want to grab some dinner?

Sure! I'm free Monday. You should come by the house first. We moved in a couple months ago and you haven't seen it yet.

We laugh for a minute about how quickly time passes, how we're already a month into 2010. I tell her I'll be there by 6:00 p.m.

On the way out the door on Monday, I grab a notebook that contains the flash fiction piece I submitted a couple days ago for publication consideration. It's not about her -- it's not about anyone, really -- but I think she'll like it. The small part of me that is still broken and aching to make the wrong decisions hopes she'll see herself in it, decide that her marriage is a sham, realize she's really in love with me, and that we're going to live happily ever after.

I don't want for much.

I get to the house, a cute two-bedroom bungalow that screams newlyweds, and she takes me on a tour.

This is my husband's office. He's out of town visiting friends.

Keep moving, Maxine.

Here's the den, our new couches. They're sleeper sofas.

Hey look -- a kitchen!

These are the built-in cabinets. I love them. She strokes the blond wood, opens a door to reveal gleaming pots and pans she and her husband brought home a year ago after their wedding. The walls are painted a brick red, the counter tops a deep granite. With better lighting, this could be the set for cookbook photography. These are the small lights above the stove that illuminate the scrubbed steel. Here is where I will stand when I pour boiling water from a pot. I'll make you dinner, something savory and dabbled with basil, something that will make your mouth water and a flush come to your cheeks. You're so beautiful and I love you and I can't have you. What? Sure, I'd love to see the bedroom.

I follow her up a steep staircase and listen as she talks about moving day, how the box springs weren't going to make it upstairs in one piece, how she made a trade with a friend for a split box springs. She shows me the closets, where they'd like to put a bathroom someday, their new bed. I am winded from the climb and want to sit down but don't out of respect and the knowledge that this is where she makes love to him.

The tour ends and we leave for dinner. We've planned on Thai, but it turns out the restaurant is closed on Mondays. We go next door to an Indian restaurant whose walls are a dusky salmon. The lighting is a bit low. The waiter lights a candle and she says what I'm thinking, that it's like being on a date. She giggles, just a bit, and I sip water, break eye contact, look at the menu, not fueling the fire of any moments that arise between us. I will not misbehave, flirt, homewreck. Nothing good will come of a relationship borne of destruction. And anyway, this future my wrecked and lonesome self is leaning towards, this dangerous, heartbreaking situation isn't on the verge of a relationship. There is a husband, the desire for children, an age difference. There is trust that cannot be broken merely because I want to kiss her.

She remarks that she hasn't been sleeping well with her husband out of town. I talk about my trip south to a gay film festival and that I shared a bed with a friend who snuggled up next to me in her sleep, not used to sleeping with anyone. I laugh and tell her how we were lying in bed, our butts pressed together. I am surprised, after five years of being single, how easily I adapt to sharing bed space with someone. Perhaps I am more ready for a relationship -- a healthy relationship -- than I realize. Perhaps it was just nice to have the warmth of a woman, platonic or not, next to me again.

We eat dinner. I am mindful of her proposed 9:00 pm bedtime so that she can catch up on sleep. We are only a few minutes from her house and arrive at 8:15 pm. I do not exit the car, do not turn off the engine, invite myself in for even a minute. I assume she is just going to get out of the car and go inside, but she lingers.

I'm confused. Did she just look at me sweetly and smile? She knows I can't kiss her, doesn't she?

The moment that I'm not entirely sure I'm in passes and she seems to reluctantly get out of the car after giving me a hug. I am trapped by my seatbelt and awkwardly give her an around-the-bicep backwards kind of hug. I pat her arm like straight guys hugging: removed, awkward, making sure I keep my hands to myself.

I am standing at a chain-link fence around a minefield and trying to convince myself it will be okay to open the gate and leap across the dirt. Surely I will emerge unscathed.

I watch her go into her house and drive home thinking about times we've gotten together in the past, like the time I invited her to a poetry reading at a local bookstore, the same that was pre-empted by a drag queen who'd written a cookbook. We forwent the book signing and went to a cafe next door where we ordered coffee and pastries, sat and talked. It did not go unnoticed that she has changed shirts between work, where we both were, and meeting me at the bookstore an hour later. I imagine her standing in front of a mirror, brushing her long brown hair, checking her reflection, probably knowing the amethyst V-neck shirt she has picked suits her and suits her well.

She was a few months away then from her wedding and I let slip a tiny bit of flirting, that I had four months and 12 days to turn her into a lesbian. Without pausing, she says, "I think I've been 3/4 of the way there my whole life."

I am speechless. I do not follow up her assertion with any commentary. I sip Diet Coke, aim to calm my racing heart. Run, Maxine. Run.

I arrive home thinking about all the things I wanted to say at dinner and in the car. I find her lingering on Facebook some time later and point out that her bedtime was 90 minutes prior.

I know, she says. We talk about TV shows on Hulu, the Wii game she's addicted to. I mention "Just Say Yes," a Snow Patrol song that I'm cracked out on; she likes the band as well. I post some of the lyrics as part of my status, wondering if she'll see the connection. In the morning, once the fog of being around her has retreated, I reread what I posted and assure myself that the lyrics are innocuous. Though my brain is screaming, again, Be with me., the words I have shared are random and liked by several people. They do not betray my heart and cause suspicion. I hope.

I spend the evening online and find myself desperate for someone to talk to. I finally connect on the phone with a friend who I know will break things down for me, confirm what I already know, tell me what I need to hear even though it sucks.

Run. Choose you, Maxine.

I know she is right but I still stay up too late, listening to my song du jour, reading the lyrics, crying, and committing the evening's moments to memory. Perhaps they will someday end up in a screenplay where the heroine kisses the bride goodbye -- a kiss for each cheek as though we are European -- and gets into her car while the music swells, leaving a woman in white to figure out her life while the heroine gets on with hers.

Run.