Anticipation

         Andrew was resolute in his cause. He’d spent months talking to her, joking with her, and just enjoying her company. She was everything he’d ever wanted; smart, funny, beautiful, a great listener, and a wonderful conversationalist. Every time she spoke, her mellifluous voice danced through his ears and tugged at the corners of his mouth until he found himself smiling against his will. Just thinking about her plastered a stupid grin on his face.

         The only thing Andrew regretted about seeing her was that they could only meet when neither of them were busy(“when neither of them were busy” being a theoretical timeframe that rarely manifested in Andrew’s universe), but the infrequency of their meetings was worth every second he could spend with her. They took evening walks sometimes, the neon lights of downtown casting an iridescent glow on everything, vibrant colors lighting up her gorgeous features. Events like that were all that sustained him until the next time they saw each other. Nothing mattered but her.

         Andrew thought back to the last time he’d been with her. They’d been in a vast crowd, happening to walk out of an ice cream parlor at the same time a concert let out, its plentitude of attendees all traveling along the same path as them. Andrew was worried they’d be ripped apart by the crowd, but she grabbed his hand and led him out of the throng. For Andrew, a person deprived of what some call “willing female contact” for the vast majority (read:all) of his life, touching her hand was a strange and pleasant sensation. He was unable to focus on the push of the people around, the entirety of his senses centering on his hand in hers, the firm yet gentle grip, his thumb rubbing her palm, the unfamiliar reciprocity in the grasp. So focused was Andrew on this unfamiliar experience, it took him a solid 30 seconds before he realized they weren’t in the crowd any more. Her hand slipped from his, and she skipped ahead as if nothing had happened. They continued in silence, Andrew absolutely smitten yet terrified.

         He’d never gotten this far with another person before. Was he supposed to grab her hand again? Hold her in his arms? Kiss her?



The hell if he knew.

         

         She gave him a ride home, the two of them occasionally trading polite snippets of conversation. Upon entering his home, Andrew racked his brains for some clues as to what his next step needed to be. She grabbed my hand, he thought, so she must want to be with me, right? Or was it an act of general goodwill, saving me from that sea of people? Andrew wanted to ask her to be his girlfriend right then and there, but the words had stuck in his throat and held tight.           

         Now, having no sense of timing, Andrew figured he had two options. The first was to rush things and immediately try to make things official ASAP. Of course, he’d tried that a few years ago with Allison, asking her out not all that long after she’d come to see him as a potential date. She still wouldn’t talk to him, unless strained yet cordial hellos counted as talking.

         His other option was to stay cautious, to wait until he was sure she would want to date him. He ran the risk of losing her long before he was sure he could keep her. Like Deborah. She still avoided him.

         He grabbed his phone and, before his mind could object, settled on rushing it. He spent a good 20 minutes on a text spilling his guts to her, trying to entreat her to become the first girl to date him. He could do it in a call, but Andrew had long ago found that sending a text doesn’t let you frantically try to retcon your innermost feelings by passing them off as a joke or nervously assuring them it was “just a test to see how you would react!” in that really loud voice that’s bordering on screaming, punctuated by bouts of manic laughter. Even though a text was sort of cold and impersonal, it was likewise a firmament, a self-evident statement that, once sent, can’t be pulled out of the ether and locked away in your heart to fester until a tiny part of you dies forever.

         Andrew was about to hit send, when some rational thought returned to him and told him to sleep on it and see if this is truly the best course of action. Andrew regretfully concurred and fell into bed, staring at the wall for an hour before his mind settled down enough and he was able to fall asleep.

         

         The instant he awoke, Andrew collapsed onto the floor, grabbed his phone, and sent the message that’d been looming over him all night. It spent a couple agonizing seconds processing the paragraph and a half he’d furiously typed up before shooting it off into the digital void. Andrew stared at his phone for half an hour, expecting a reply, before remembering that other people (himself excluded) had lives, and actually did stuff with their free time. So, Andrew resolved to do something until he received a reply, and would definitely not keep his phone within four inches of his gently twitching hands. Yes sir, he’d go and do something...



He glanced at his phone.



An hour later, he recalled that he should be doing something, and slowly stood up, never taking his eyes off the small block of plastic and metal that was the source of his consternation.

         He’d almost left the room when the phone’s screen lit up. A second later, Andrew was rolling around in pain, having collided with his nightstand as he dove to grab his phone. Another second later, and he had the device and the physical trauma to show for it. His stomach felt electric, tingling with fear and hope as he anticipated her reply. He unlocked the phone and began to read the message.

         So occupied was Andrew with anticipation, that he forgot that other people texted him as well. This led to a confused couple of minutes as he struggled to fathom why she was asking to borrow his car for the weekend. Andrew eventually noticed that it had been Ted who’d texted him, and summarily reminded his friend that he wasn’t allowed within 50 feet of Andrew’s car under any circumstances. Andrew decided he needed to leave his house for a while, and leave his phone at home. God forbid he get obsessed.

         Andrew took a walk in the park near his house, hoping to detox his mind with a bit of fresh air. It was a beautiful fall day. Orange leaves cascaded from the trees in a squall of color and sound. A biting breeze wound through the park, insinuating its way across every inch of skin left uncovered. People were gathered in little packs, laughing, playing, the sounds of their joy occasionally accompanied by a series of barks and the patter of paws on the topsoil.



Andrew really wished he had his phone with him.



         After listlessly wandering around for a few minutes, Andrew headed back home, his resolve crushed by desire. He stepped inside, took off his jacket, and strode to his phone.

It read, “1 new message”



Andrew felt anxiety boiling in his chest



He unlocked the screen



It was from her



Despite all his convictions, Andrew was hesitant. Part of him never wanted to read it, to let his preconceptions about how she felt sustain him forever, unchanging, supplying a delusion of mutual affection to fool him until Judgement Day. Another, less eloquent part said “Do it.”



Andrew liked that second voice’s brevity



He opened the message, and began to read



He read for a long time



When he finished reading, he read it again



And again



And, figuring the fourth time was the charm, he read it again



Upon completing the 4th reading, a small part of him died



It was a long text, easily a couple paragraphs, but it held a very simple message:



No



Everything else was just padding, a cushion so his heart didn’t break quite as painfully.



Like a defective airbag, it didn't work



Andrew sort of lost track of time after that. He spent a few hours staring at the floor he’d collapsed upon, feeling a slight tingling sensation, but little else.



He didn’t feel sad, or angry, or even disappointed. He didn’t feel a thing.



He didn’t feel a thing.



And why should he?