I don't know why it took me so long to learn to look up. To get to the period in my life in which I'd fall in love with men in the space of those few seconds of a held gaze. I don't know why it was so hard, for so long to meet a glance and join in.
But I'm there now. I've made it. And I understand. They say there's nothing like a man looking at you. But that's not quite right. There's nothing like a man looking at you, when you want that man to look at you. There must be a tension to it, a silent waltz. There must be two people desiring for the the thing to take flight.
On Saturday morning, crossing the street, I met the eyes of a man who stood next to an older woman. His mother, perhaps? We stood on opposite sides of the street. All of us with coffee cups in our hands. He wore a hat and had dark eyes and he looked at me. While she spoke to him, he looked at me. And I looked back. Surprised and flattered and totally undone, I looked back. And god, his look became a flagrant thing--ballsy and forward and totally welcome.
He filled my cup. This total-stranger-of-a-man filled my cup. If only for a moment. He filled that small well between my hands that needed to be filled. That needed to be reminded that it does exist. That the impossibility of the two right people meeting at just the right moment might actually be possible. That love is the thing, after all.