I feel like I’m holding myself hostage. No, wait. I’m just holding my breath hostage. Breathe damnit! …I just told myself to breathe. I’m being conscious of this involuntary action. In. Out. Every second. I have to remind myself of something out of my control.
Story of my life.
Shit. Did I put deodorant on? The way I’m sweating is a resounding no. Damn, I do smell good though. Really fresh. Crisp even. Like the smell of clear water in the Bahamas. Not sure if sights can smell like something. Guess this “silver technology” shit is doing it’s job. Not really winning in the creating-less-damp-armpits-in-times-of-dire-straits category.
Wait, straits or straights? Is this a dire straight? Is this moment even dire? Cause it’s sure as hell not straight. Well, I’m not. Is that why this antiperspirant isn’t working? I lack the necessary criterion that define a moment as “dire strait” due to my attraction to men. Suddenly my religious (re)discovery in Tenth grade makes sense now.
Four minutes. Twenty-three until my class starts, which leaves eight until I get up from these 90s airport terminal benches. Seriously, they make me want to take a flight out of here. And they give me the same anxiety. I feel like my every moves is being scrutinized by the gallery of going no where college kids. That’s a double-entendre; in case you didn’t know.
I swear everyone is just listening to each other breathe and proceeding to judge their lives. The slightest hack-a-lung cough, no matter how stifled, means you’re a pack-a-day smoker. If you’re a female, whew girl, you must be trash. Hey dude, I can hear you inhale. Save some for the rest of us. Oh yea, vacuum nose looks like he’s inhaled a pizza or two. XTRA Large, with extra sauce.
Great, now I’m doing it too. Promise I’m not a judge-y asshole. I’m feeling the weight of those imaginary hammers being shot from their eyelids. With each WTF blink, I feel myself growing more self-conscious. Do they know about the moment I was practically dead trying to mentally resuscitate myself? Maybe the girl two seats down wind got a whiff of my stress sweat. I thought girls liked a sweaty man. Well, here’s a very unnecessarily perspiring hunk of homosexual for you sweetie. Unfortunately, these signals aren’t meant for you cowgirl hipster/backwoods flapper. By the way, I’m being polite with those descriptions.
Ah shit, eye contact!
Act normal. Don’t make any sudden movements or Duck Dynasty might have me as a trophy. Or just awkwardly lower my gaze towards her cleavage because that’s not creepy. I can see how this plays out: “Black Man Eye Rapes Innocent Country Girl”. Sorry, there’s nothing innocent about your breasts wanting to escape and join me in the next seat.
I can at least say he has successfully been off my mind a whole five minutes. New world record. Personal best. Whoo. Now I remain prisoner of this chair for the next three minutes. I won’t leave any sooner. Not quite prepared for a chance encounter; though he has been arriving late mostly. “Late” being on time for me.
Am I being this pathetically hopeless right now? Yea. I am. My chest hasn’t relaxed from the thought of us crossing paths in this hallway. It wouldn’t happen near the elevator entrances, no no no. I’m not lucky enough to have my fellow non-travelers witness me visibly stumble in his presence. Cause he can still do that to me.
And now I’m doing that thing with my leg. Even the slightest mention of him throws my body and soul into nervous tics. Every Wednesday I get like this– shaken from an inevitable meeting. He’s in my class for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t help we haven’t spoken in about a month. Nor do I think his seating choice was coincidental either. Maybe I’m so expressively neurotic because of these thoughts; which manifest themselves as my leg bouncing uncontrollably up and down. Always the right one too…
Finally. Freed from my vinyl slaver and the ever anxiety-inducing minutes before class. I pray he didn’t Houdini his way up here. My luck isn’t that shitty.