One thousand, one hundred, and eleven days ago.
I don’t know what possessed me to drive to her house. I just sort of ended up there. I knocked on her door some what softly with the half-hearted hopes that she wouldn’t hear it to answer. I stood there on her doorstep gazing at my shoes in a misty rain. The door opens and I turned to meet her eyes. She stood with disbelief and asked.
“Why are you here?”
“I don’t know…”
I respond carefully examining her choice of words.
“…I… You know I am not very good at explaining my actions.”
She moves past the door as to invite me in. I walk though that familiar threshold as she innocently closes the door behind me.
“I am not here to get in your pants”
I reassure her. I am sure she was thinking the same thing I was, as the words left my mouth; What kind of guy says that?
I walked into her living room and slowly looked around. Things have changed prominently since the last time I had been there. She had truly come into her own and seemingly had out grown the perpetual party I found her in. Music was playing and an open book lay open on the end table. She walked over with her glass of wine in hand and sat down next to me. It seemed I was interrupting a rather tranquil evening. I am sure she was curious of what I was going to say, since last time we had spoke she had told me to forget her name and forget her face.
“So why are you here then?” she asked.
A million thoughts and phrases ran through my head. So many things I could have said or asked. I could have just said sorry and left. But all I could say was.
“You look happy.”
Time seemed to drift away into the night as we stayed up talking.
The only woman who has ever truly looked at me with admiration in her eyes turned and said to me, “Ryan, you will always be a tragedy.” as she kissed me on my cheek and shut the door. I stood at her door for a few minutes pondering what she had just said to me. I am not entirely sure the context she meant it in, but I knew she was right.
Reblogged from ryanproject