This line from one of those boring inspiration email chain letter that makes the round every so often got me thinking:
5. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
I didn't know his name. I saw him in halls. And everytime he would pass me, neither of us would say anything, he would just smile and me, and I would smile back at him, and I knew he was like me, too shy to speak, too sweet to ignore. We went on like that for weeks, maybe months. Me not knowing him. Afraid to ask. Afraid to notice, because he woke something in me. Something dormant. Something beyond what I had, what I was willing to accept. Something secret. Something I couldn't tell anyone. I was half in love with him, and I didn't even know who he was or what he did, what sort of man he was. Am I romanticizing it? I don't think so. I remember dreaming about his smile. I remember counseling someone to always smile, with his smile before my eyes, because his smile was the sexiest thing I could imagine.
And then it came, my boss sent me to find someone to get some software. And I didn't know who she meant, but I dutifully followed her directions to his office. And he was walking towards me on the way there. And I smiled. And he smiled. And when he reached me, he stopped. And I said, "Oh, it's you then?" which is possibly the stupidest opening line I've ever had. And if this were romance, he would have kissed me right then. If this were steamy romance, he would have carried me back to his office and had his wicked way with me on his desk, as I later so often imagined. But it's real life, and things don't work that way. He said, "Yes." and he took me to my software. And the promise remained just that, a promise. And I continuing the stupid flow of meaningless conversation said, "I didn't know who you were." because I'd heard his name. "Did you know you were meeting me?"
"Yes," he answered with a blush, "I asked around."
You see in the end, he was bolder than I. But neither of us was quite bold enough. And so the story ends. Or lingers in the air like the scent of the man I was too afraid to touch.