What If

Though the character isn't me (seeing as I am not blond nor do I wear makeup) this is how I think I would feel if I ever do go on a date.

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Her foot, protected in the daisy white sandal, tapped upon the concrete rapidly. Her teeth pulled and tugged at her pink bottom lip, numbing it from continuous attention. Her finger curled her strand of golden apple hair, overlooking the fact she had spent all the early morning hours to get it straightened for this wondrous occasion.

She dabbed at sweat on her brow, mindful of her makeup and patted her purse to ensure the back-up deodorant was secured within. The silver trinkets on her wrist tingled and dingled with each fidgety move.

There was a horrible lurch within the boiling pit of her belly, making her queasy. Dread and doubt came along with the nausea, earning more fearful twitches.

'What if he doesn't come?' She wheezed. 'What if he changed his mind? What if things go horribly wrong? Does my breath smell? Its the first date so I doubt there is kissing--but if it smells now he might not want to later.' She prayed she had a couple of pieces of mint-gum somewhere in the jungle of her bag. 'What if my hand is sweaty and he is grossed out? Would he even want to hold hands? Am I moving to fast? What if he doesn't see this as anything romantic or deep, just as something...else?'

Her mind swarmed with disastrous events, one painful outcome after another, as she tried to steady her breath and heart.

It was hard to pull herself out of this spiral--once on, the ride could seldom be stopped.

She found herself scared, believing everything to be a mistake. What was she thinking going on a date? Her on a date? It was so out f place and wrong she had to laugh at it--almost hysterically.

Deep rooted doubt wormed its way even deeper into her soul; what if bouncing around her skull.

He was a good person, a good man, but why would he come? For what reason did he have to make any sort of journey to meet her up for a personal, romantic outing?

She nearly began to rip out the hair she worked hard on, with more passion and frantic insanity then even the best of artists. But what was the point in keeping it pretty when he wasn't going to show?

Tears were making it hard to see what was in front of her. It was so difficult to hold the floods back. But not in a public place. Not in front of so many who may stare. Mocking and curious glared would be too hard to take.

Her face was already beginning to burn hotly and a little sniffle was escaping her moist nose. Her nails gripped her white skirt, worrying it, venting out her frustration unto the article of clothing--trying to prevent herself from sobbing.

What was she going to about this date?

Sniffling a bit more now, wishing she had a tissue, she remained glued to her place--that little bit of stubborn hope remaining.

She hoped he would prove all her what ifs wrong. That perhaps he was going to be her hero, ready to battle the doubts and prove herself wrong.

Gnawing at her lip again she checked her watch, whimpering at the sight that the minute hand had only moved twice.

Two minutes of absolute hell and still nothing to show for it except for a couple of passers-by who thought she needed a tranquilizer.

Her fidgeting worsened.

'Please,' She begged. 'Please...' Her eyes shimmered at the sight of the running figure. Such a familiar figure rushing towards her, her expression mirrored on his face; scared and doubtful. She could read the same what ifs playing in his expressive brown eyes. Worry and doubt had plagued his soul, urging his legs to carrying him even faster to their meeting spot.

Seeing him hurrying, catching the same emotions within her in him, locking eyes...the anxiety melted off. A small shy smiled lifted up the corners of her lips, no longer being chewed on.

He slowed down before he could slam into her, red faced and panting, but smiled nervously, "Am I late?" He gasped out, looking more worried over the situation then the fact he seemed to be suffocating from the work-out. He's ran for a long time to get to her; to reach her and get away from those doubts nipping at his heels.

"No," She said, shrugging off the annoying what ifs, and smiled warmly at him. "You're just in time."

Sight

It's not a complicated feeling per say, just not one that can be easily explained. How something internally moves and leaves the person staggering for a split second before the apple red glow burns at their cheeks and their legs, lead by this point in time, is hurried along to get past.

Its an emotion that while some might fear is shallow is just based on a burst of feeling that can't be controlled by one's own morals. After all, many are stunning in appearance, for all different reasons—but deep down it is known that he is stunning to you for a special reason, even if that reason will one day fade and your eyes will gaze upon another.

Out of all others it is his form that your eyes catch no matter how big of a crowd. The reason for this line of sight can't be on appearance alone, there must be a spark, a sense of fate, or a something that draws you to him and no other.

Breath hitches in both hope and discord when you feel the need to look up as you move down the path, praying and hoping that it was him you are about to see, yet wishing it was not so this longing would
cease. Muscles tense, fingers clench, and blood races from the heart to the face and you just know that its happening again. You try to catch dark eyes but fail and though you are racing away from the failed chance the feet feel like iron blocks holding you down, calling you a coward for denying any chance.

Pausing a moment you turn, hoping to catch sight of him once more, and perhaps having him catching sight of you too.

There is no eyes locking, sparks flying, breath hitching.

There is no turning around, a knowing shy smile on the faces of both.

There is nothing but one seeing the other and the other feeling transparent.

Another day comes and another day goes, nothing changes in the routine of the one with the sight. With the day in and day out, wishing and hoping for something better and new to change. But the sight can't always be shared, some must deal with the painful one-sided glance. To have the heaviness of the rejection without words.

But it doesn't ever seem to stop from the eyes glancing upward hopefully, longing to be able to lock eyes and know that he returned that same line of sight.