However, all I can think about is the next time I’ll see her and I’m desperately craving it, but I’m trying not to let it consume me entirely.
I know she’s a contractor and nothing more, but no matter how hard I try to be cautious, I find myself still constantly thinking about her.
That’s why I’ve been keeping my distance, afraid that if I get too close, I’ll say or do something I’ll regret. I don’t want her to become another obsession, another thing I cling to when life gets messy, something I’ve struggled with ever since I found out about my dad.
Annoyance weaves its way through my veins. Irritated at myself because this obsession I have with her is becoming unhealthy and yet I can’t seem to stop myself from doing what I do next once I’m back at my desk…
I tap on my keyboard and begin by searching the internet for Slab City. Then Sapphire’s name, devouring every tiny piece of information about her and what her life might have been like while growing up. I still don’t learn much except that she’s admired throughout the state and has won the Innovative Business of the Year award three years in a row.
Closing my search, I check my emails and freeze as my eyes land on Sapphire’s name and the email titled “New Venue Tours.”
Faster than lightning strikes, I open it and skim read. My heart bounces with hope because it’s inviting me to visit several new venues to host our event, starting next week, which means I will get to spend more time with her. Having managed to keep her at arm’s length for weeks, I’m now desperate to see her again.
She goes on to explain that the hotel we had previously booked caught fire overnight, forcing it to close. God knows how I missed that on this morning’s news.
I sit frozen in front of the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard before I begin to reply.
Okay, Eli, it’s just one email. People write emails all day, every day, without treating them like each letter will start a nuclear war.
Hey,
No, that’s too informal.
Hi,
Too stiff?
Fuck sakes, why is this so hard?
Decide on a greeting, Eli, it’s not like Sapphire is grading your email.
Ms. Feelgood
Perfect.
Thanks for getting in touch.
No, that’s not right. Rewriting the first line, I mutter to myself and hit backspace like it’s a natural reflex. Then I take a deep breath and start again, this time more slowly. Even then, I rewrite one of the sentences four times because the tone still feels off. To me it feels like a crooked photo frame hanging on the wall, and I need to fix it.
It irritates me how everyday tasks challenge me now. I know I’m being irrational. Trust me, I do. I’m exhausted from overthinking simple text messages and daily chores that hold me hostage more often than I’d like. I used to fire off dozens of emails in the time it takes me to write one now and never give it a second thought. Now I find myself writing, rewriting, and reading emails repeatedly, dissecting grammar and punctuation like it’s evidence in a trial before I send them, sometimes up to six times until something clicks and feels “just right.”
Sapphire may move like a spark bursting with color, wild and untamed, but the truth is, her outside looks exactly like the inside of me, she’s just wearing the secret I keep buried.
“Does this sound boring?” I ask myself.
Reading my reply aloud, I rub my temples when two of the words feel off, then rephrase them, tapping each letter slowly.
Just hit send.
No. Not yet.
The ending feels off. She’ll think I’m a cold fish.
Fuck it. I am.
I’m not.
It’s not the ending that feels strange. I feel strange. I never felt this way before, but now I do.
