I will admit it. I'm a romantic. Well at least I like to think I am. I believe affection and other related emotions are most important to us as humans. Having a crush on some else can become the most exhilarating experience as you progress through the different stages. One stage can be the most dangerous. You can dream and aspire to the best of possibilities, but you can also be kept firmly frozen in your tracks. The short passage I've written below deals with the agony of the stage I imagine many of us have struggled with. Infatuation.

The middle of winter holds its frigid grasp on the center of the park. Trees stripped bare of their leaves surround the clearing made by the pond. Snow as fine and light as dust on top of an old cupboard sits atop of the frozen water. Skaters lightly blemish the ice with the scrapes made by the sharp blades of their skates. Indentations along the bank mark where those who are not as experienced slipped, but had been fortunate enough to land in the relative padding of the snow. Veteran skaters can be easily spotted as they maneuver across the ice with a graceful ease out of the way of their novice companions.

A fair amount of people pass through the park during this time. Some take the path through the park for leisure, but most pass through going from one place to another. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line after all. They don’t tally from place to place, but like to minimize the time in their travel in order to make the most of their time at their expected destination. I doubt how much they really see as they pass through. Their faces blank, almost ghostly, like dead men walking. I was one of those people.

I used to be someone who would simply breeze by. Someone whose surroundings didn’t matter much to me. A tree was a tree, it didn’t serve any purpose to me. Flowers were just plants with some varying colors, even then they could have all been black and white for all I cared. I changed when something spectacular caught my eye. Now, trees appear as magnificent towering beings full of life. Lush green leaves turning to crisp blazing shades of orange, yellow, and burning red as the days grow shorter. I yearn for spring, bushes of peonies with their soft magenta petals, and gatherings of delicate lilacs, produce a sweet tantalizing fragrance. My desire and appreciation for warmer weather and the beauty that comes with it, stems from her. That’s why I always pass through the park at this time everyday, hopeful not to miss her. She is a crocus blooming amidst the early snow of spring. Something to know new life will surround us shortly.

I pass by the large oak, and my eyes know to dart to where they always go. There she is, sitting like always on the bench right next to the water of the frozen pond. I can’t see her face, but I know it’s her. There’s no one else it could be. The golden rays of the sun shine upon her and produce a luster from her soft flaxen hair as brilliant the light that shines upon it. I feel a warmth spread throughout my body as I gaze at her figure, and a smile appears on my face.

She has a book in her hands. I don’t know what she is reading, but the way she reads, the expression of her face, how intent and engaged she appears to be shows any onlooker whatever that book contains has captured her mind and placed her into its own world. She’s always reading a book when I see her at that bench. What a great way to start a conversation. I could simply ask her what she's reading, but that’s not good enough. She’s enraptured by this other person’s, possibly another man’s, ideas. She hangs off of every word he writes. Why can’t she hang off of my writing?

I’m looking at her as I stroll along the path, and then I see myself. It’s almost as if in a dream. I see myself approach her. I’m different though. My hair, trimmed. I’m wearing a suit much finer compared to anything I could afford now. I step towards her, with a new confident air, off the path and closer to the bench where she sits. I’ve never left the path before. I’ve never been this close to her, but here I see myself with the audacity to get so near. I ask something like “may I join you?” She looks up at me from her novel. She has the most alluring and entrancing blue eyes. Oh God, these eyes shine like radiant sapphires! I imagine myself simply melting right there into the snow.

She recognizes me in a snap. The corners of her mouth rise instantly to unveil her smile. She turns her book over to see my picture on the back cover.

“Oh, I love your work!” she exclaims gazing at me. She pulls the book to her chest with her arms wrapped around it. “I simply don’t know how you create the stories you do! The passion you show in your writing,” she pauses, “I’m astounded by every single word.” She closes her eyes and exhales deeply with a smile on her soft face. She looks like she’s lost in her own memories of her reading.

Opening her eyes, she brushes a strand of golden hair back behind her ear, but almost instantly remembers I’m standing in front of her. “Oh Yes! Please sit.” she says sliding across the smooth green surface of the bench.

“Thank you,” I say, clearing a bit of snow off the bench. I relish in the fact that she said yes. Everything seems in my control now. I sit quickly. I’ve never gotten this far! What do I say? The smile on my face seems to fade as I grow nervous. “So,” clearing my throat, “you enjoy my books?” I look back to her to see a luminous smile that I could never dream of being so perfect. She doesn’t care what I say, she’s even more transfixed than I am.

“Oh yes!” She looks off to the pond and speaks of my writing with so much energy, in ways no one ever has. “Nothing compares to…” Her voice just seems to trail off as I gaze at her. Isn’t she lovely? The passion she speaks with, not of something trivial, but of writing, of literature. Not of poets long ago, or classic authors, but me. My writing!

She loves my writing. I’m the one she hangs onto. I’m the one she reads when life couldn’t be better. I’m the one she reads when her eyes swell with tears and life seems devoid of the simplest of pleasures. I am the one she reads. I am the one who opens her mind. I am the one who is with her. Always.

You speak so deeply, so fondly of my work. You seem to have infinite knowledge of every book, every chapter I’ve written, but you don’t know. You don’t seem to know you are the one I write for. The park, the frozen pond in front of you, the bench you are sitting on, you don’t recognize any of it!

I want to tell her. Tell her, she is the reason for my writing. My love for her is what she reads. Those words on the page, they’re crafted for you. They aren’t for anyone else. My countless hours of writing, each word, they don’t simply sit on the page, they’re meant to speak to you of my burning passion. How much it pains me everyday to pass you and know you aren’t mine.

“Stop!” I yell at her with my arm stretched out. She breaks from her talking, and turns to be looking directly to my eyes. I open my mouth to say what I have yearned to tell you for so long! I can’t make a sound.

The figment of myself disappears, and I notice I’ve walked around the pond. I’m standing behind her on the path. She is sitting on the dark green painted bench by the pond. The spot I occupied in my daydream is empty. It looks inviting and I step onto the snow, but I realize what she’s doing. She’s reading her book. It’s not my work, but someone else’s. She’s comforted by the words of another right now. Maybe some other day she will read about a blonde woman sitting on a park bench in the cold of winter. I turn and continue my walk down the path.