I stood at the entrance to my room and paused, just to survey it. It was somewhat spartan, and yet it felt homely to me. Doesn't speak much of my idea of 'home' I suppose. My trusty bedside lamp was on, providing me with its inadequate and yet appropriately dull yellow glow; a peaceful silence seeped through the curtainless windows, waiting as if with bated breath.
"Must get curtains.", I tell myself. I need my privacy, and never as much as I needed it tonight.
The bed was made, and the fan was on. I almost hated to switch it on, it disturbed the quiet that I had been soaking in till then. At that point I realised I was being rather OCD about all this, and I smiled to myself. She was just coming to say 'hi', that's all.
I moved my shoes to the corner, sat on the bed and once again surveyed the room. I felt myself growing anxious with every passing minute in my attempt to make everything just right. I wasn't even sure what I was expecting for that night; all I knew was that I had learned to expect the unexpected. Just a few weeks earlier I had been 'surprised' at Odel; I wasn't going to let that happen again.
"Odel.", I whispered, a wry smile on my lips. I would have to get her back for that.
I turned to my laptop and flicked through iTunes, looking for something that would befit the mood. I knew so little about her, and yet I knew her so well. Kings of Leon were her favourite then, but instead I decided to queue some Andy McKee. Gentle yet precise music, with no vocals; in a strange way I found that very appropriate.
I sat back down on the bed, and waited. There was so much running through my head at that time: work concerns, family problems, and the usual barrage of static that fills your head after a long day. All that faded away though when my phone beeped to indicate a text message. I read it, and smiled as I flicked the switch of my lamp off.
Stealthily, I made my way to the front door and opened it ever so softly.
"Hi", she said, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.
This one is for you.
My inadequacies as a writer do no justice to the perfection of that night, perhaps one of the only instances where I can claim to have done something right in an ocean of wrong. My inadequacies as a man do no justice to the perfection of you, either.
Words are cheap, and my words are nothing, just as this post is nothing. Mere letters in cyberspace, soon to be erased by the passage of time like chalk writings on a pavement. Dust in the wind.
You deserve more.
I make you no more promises, for I know your distaste towards them. No more confessions of love and devotion; you are sick of them as well. I cannot ask you for anything; you have already given me so much. Perhaps though, if my words are moot, you will allow me to paraphrase someone else's.
All I ask is, now that my 'time has come';