Page 7 of When We Were Young

CHAPTER FOUR

Oscar

Imet Emma at university, that very first day. The first day of the rest of our lives. Grandmother loved that saying. She said it to me and Jared, my cousin, all the time.

And she was right.

I never believed in love at first sight. Sure, there was lust. I knew about lust.

And I was attracted to Emma. I wanted her from the moment I saw her sit down across the seminar table.

She’s beautiful, and I watch as she takes her books out of her bag. She arranges them neatly in front of her, on the table, and then the girl next to her says something, maybe introduces herself, I don’t know, because I’m only concentrating on her. On the shape of her lips as she speaks. On how soft her hair looks, how I want to touch her hair, run it through my fingers.

God, I need to know her name.

And I can’t stop watching her, even when the seminar’s started and introductions are being made. I choke out my name, and all I need is hers.

“I’m Emma,” she says, smiling.

My God, she’s beautiful.Emma. Her name tastes right as I mutter it quietly.

I don’t listen to another word in the seminar. How can I when she’s here? When all my energy is just drawn to her. I am a prisoner.

At the break time, she stands up and again I see her body. She has the hottest body, and I want to touch her curves and look into her eyes. Those eyes that sparkle when she’s talking about the book we’re studying this week. I wonder if she’ll be in more of my literature seminars.

I pray that I’ll see her tomorrow.

She just sparkles.

And I am drawn to her, the clichéd moth to a flame. Helpless.

I take a deep breath.

Emma’s in my living room, and it’s easier to think of those times when I’m not in the same room as her. But I wonder if she remembers that moment. If she had any idea what I was feeling and how much it took not to reach out and touch her hand afterward as we filed out. I made sure to walk close to her, and I could’ve so easily brushed my hand against hers, felt her skin under my touch.

But I didn’t.

I wanted our first touch to mean something. To both of us.

“Concentrate,” I tell myself, then realize how ridiculous it is that I’m talking to myself.

I take the teabags out of the lopsided ceramic bowl I made years ago and boil the kettle, trying to ignore the stirrings inside me. And she’s in my living room right now. So close I can almost smell her perfume, even in the next room.

And I’m inhaling her scent as I pour the boiling water into the mugs. Because she’s here, and she smells the same.

My hands shake as I carry the mugs through. What are we going to say? There are too many words we left unspoken before, and time has both mellowed the distance and made it sharper. One wrong word and the blood will spill.

---