This is something I have not felt before. This soft, gentle love. A need not to belong but to be with. This is not young, this is not lust, this is not even a fast sexual thrill. This is slow, patient and kind. There is no desire; just longing.
I walk down the stairs instead of taking the elevator. The stairs take longer, give me more time to think. More time to convince myself that at the very next step, I'm going to turn around. But I get there, to her door, and walk past, just a bit--who knows why. Maybe to prove that I could.
I don't want to knock. If I knock, and she answers, then suddenly I need a reason to be there. I can not imagine her opening the door and myself saying, "I'm sorry, I just wanted to see you." And if she doesn't answer, if she's not there, somehow that is so much worse.
I do knock. Three times in rapid succession. I listen, intent, while edging slowly from the door, afraid that when she opens it I will seem too eager, too close. There is no noise inside. She is not there. But I knock again, twice, not even certain if it's loud enough to hear. My throat closes, and my heart beats faster. My eyes burn and water.
I take the elevator back.
I want to spend my life with her. Her life with mine. It's only 8 more months.
Somehow that makes it all the more important.
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