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I watch the steady stream of men to and from your desk all day long. I can hear them talking to you about anything and everything they can think of to get a chance to look at you. Some flirt. Most don't have the nerve to be so obvious. Most are married. I wish I were not in a position to see and hear this. I don't like jealousy in anyone; least of all in myself.
I can't blame them of course. I am as guilty as they. You have got to be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen; and that is saying a lot! I see you thrive under their attention. I guess I can't blame you for that either. You are young, beautiful, single, and intelligent. You have the world at your beck and call; especially the men. Why wouldn't you get all you could from such circumstances? It's not your fault that I love you. How could you possibly know? I envy every person, male or female, who comes into contact with you. I am angry with myself for feeling so powerless to act. I hate myself for wanting to beat every man who speaks to you. I want to rage against a world that allows me to be so close to you and yet all but invisible as far as you are concerned. I scream to God, night after night, please help me to stop the pain. There goes another one. That makes three in the last ten minutes. Damnation! I thought love was supposed to feel good. It's not your fault. I can't blame the men. I can't lay this on God either. That only leaves me! Somehow, I must be to blame. If that is so, then I must be the one to find the solution. I cannot make you love me. I don't want to go through the rest of my life without ever holding you. I can't live with this turmoil much longer. Why can't I have more courage around you? I am not terribly old. I am not horrible to look at. I have a good job, at which I excel. I am a novelist, a poet, a musician, a philosopher, and can be very funny, even charming. I am gentle, compassionate, romantic, dependable, monogamous, loving, passionate, and one of the best lovers any woman could ask for. With all of this going for me, why do I feel so small and worthless in your presence? I guess it's not my fault either. God knows, we do not choose who we fall in love with. More's the pity! Not your fault, not the men's fault, not God's fault, and not my fault. Where does that leave me? Damn, there goes another one! © 1999 by D. Ron Mack Written 4/28/1999 |
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