I stood there as I had twice before, loose shirt draped from my shoulders, belt synched for my lack of waist. Shoes tied just tight enough to make me self conscious, but socks tall and proud, ridiculous patterns ensuring those who catch a glimpse of them that I am, in fact, unprofessional. But with her, I needn’t even wear socks. I needn’t wear any indicator, for that matter. I could be bundled up in a fur coat, snow pants, and a ski mask, and I’d still be undressed in front of her.
We didn’t say much, at first. We simply read one another. Sure, the niceties were observed, and the typical catch-up banter was cast back and forth, but for all of our words, we said nothing. When we truly said nothing, we learned the most about one another. We once drove down a very dark freeway listening and dancing to music, and we learned more about one another than we could have on a coffee date.
Now, I don’t know where we stand…
A word of caution to every man who ever thought boldness was a prized trait: be careful with how bold you are, and who you are bold with. It is not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for those who maintain non-verbal conversations. I do not mean those who conduct non-verbal conversations, I intend to say those who take those conversations and write them on your back.
I admitted affections for my Little Miss Hobbs, and I fear she does not and will not look at me the same again. I admitted them verbally, but she did not hold that against me. But then she read me, and wrote our quasi-conversations on my back.
Now here I am, undressed and shameless. I regret nothing, but she still reads “us” as I walk away.