She was fascinating. George would even go so far as to say, “spellbinding,” for she captured his attention completely. He’d never met anyone like her before and he didn’t quite know how to deal with that.
On the one hand, they were friends, but on the other, he felt something for her akin to passion that he’d never had with anyone else before.
How do you tell someone that? he asked himself one night as he sat drinking whiskey alone in his home office.
Do you send an email? Do you go the old-fashioned way and write a letter? Or do you have the balls and actually go and see them in person and tell them?
He didn’t think he could do the last one. He was good at writing and putting his thoughts into words, but his mind and mouth didn’t seem to ever cooperate and he often said things without thinking or was rendered speechless when all he wanted to do was say how he felt.
He was a writer, not an orator. He hated public speaking and he got nervous in front of people who he didn’t know.
But he knew her. And yet, she made him nervous in a different way. She gave him that fluttery feeling low in his stomach; “butterflies,” she’d called them. The word had made her lips twitch as she said it and he found himself mesmerized by them. God he wanted to kiss her, but he wasn’t sure if she felt the same.
I’ll let her make the first move, he told himself.
But then he wondered, maybe she’s thinking the same thing.
Someone always needs to say how they feel first. If no one speaks, the love is lost and love should never be wasted.