Little Heart Beats Wrapped In A Box

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I love you.

Um, not exactly. Let’s not exaggerate. I mean, I’m quite fond of you. But I won’t tell you. I will keep it to myself, and a couple of my close friends – a couple meaning around five people. Considering me and my big mouth, I’m being subtle.

Let’s take a look at how people might inform someone they’re interested in being more than friends with.

  • The wimp’s way: They leave a note on their windshield, with a phone number. This would be suggestive of the stalker type, since they’d have to know their plate number, their regular hangouts, parking spots, perhaps even which CD is playing every now and then.
  • The casual way: They send a phone or Facebook message asking them out for a cup of coffee. Notice that Facebook is an excellent stalking tool, highly entertaining on late lonely nights.
  • The “What the hell?” way: As in, “What the hell are you waiting for? Ask her out. It’s a yes or no!” Obviously, simple and direct.

But the fact of the matter is it’s not as simple as this.

When it comes to a stranger, I agree, “What the hell?” You get rejected, you move on. Then there’s the Facebook friend whom you’ve liked for a while, and decided to ask out, now that you’re single. They make you wait for a week before they reply to your message by saying they’re “overwhelmed with work.” And then you bump into them everywhere you go, at every party and every event, but that’s still fine…

It becomes an issue when it’s someone you actually admire. And you’ve come to – gulp – care about. You meet occasionally, you stay up late at night chatting, you exchange anecdotes about your exes. You share so many affinities to the point where it’s become embarrassing to have so much in common with someone who’s still just a friend.

And now, you don’t wanna risk losing the friendship. Of course, if for some reason the Gods decide among themselves not to endorse such a communion, both parties are mature enough to handle the issue with grace. But who would want to tread into a dark alley alone at night?

I don’t normally seek to engage with women. I don’t enjoy attention seekers, or players. But she could be the quietest girl in the room, sitting still, observing everybody else. Her presence is marked by a coy smile, with eyes so tender, reflecting her brilliance. She’s the dreamer, with her head up in the clouds, either rolling a cigar in Cuba, or saving wildlife in Oceania. She’s a 24-karat heart of gold that beats with love and compassion.

If you can’t see her for what she truly is, you have a long way ahead in your journey.

Some say it with candy.
Some say it with flowers.
I say it with Bekhsoos.
I like you.

Disclaimer: This piece was written by avoiding common logic, and listening to a little voice inside the author’s head.

Phoenix is a self-centered and sarcastic soul incarnated, perhaps by accident, in the bodi of a woman. As a writer with a temper, she replaces her "y's with an annoying “i” for aesthetical purposes and lives to crack a joke, at the expense of others. Her paranoid nature makes her sensitive to plants, animals and people. Ironicalli, after making fun of the Meem lesbians for years, she found a warm home there and is now renowned as its veri own emotional pest. She enjoys reading the paper with a hot cup of black tea while nude, more often than not.

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