I Still Love You - Part 1

    What a strange predicament I find myself in! The tables have been turned! I'm getting a taste of my own medicine! I've been hoisted with my own petard! So many times have I performed this very ruse only to find myself the unwilling plaything of another, and I'm not sure how to feel about it. I suppose I should feel anxious, and I surely do. Yet I also find another part of myself to be strangely unperturbed; slightly relieved and amused even. It is as if I'm about to hear the punch line of an all-too-long joke.

    You see, I've always been quite the ladies' man, and at the risk of sounding boastful, quite the dandy as well. I've never had any trouble attracting a woman, and I've always preferred to be the one who makes the advances. Though some may think it old-fashioned of me, I always found it unpalatable that a woman would be the one to make the first move. It may not be wrong, in and of itself, but it is quite contrary to my personal way of going about things. So you can imagine how odd it must feel to have received an unsolicited token of affection from another. No name was given with the gift. The note was simply signed, "Your secret admirer".

    On some level, I can understand. When I pursue a woman, I always prefer the 'secret admirer' approach. I get a great deal of satisfaction from the mystery and anticipation a woman might feel at the notion that some anonymous someone thought highly enough of her to put together such an elaborate courtship dance. Again, you might find it understandable, given my traditionalist views, how I might find it off-putting to have a secret admirer of my own.

    The aforementioned token now rests on my bookshelf; a single rose with a tag, which arrived at my doorstep at the cusp of dusk. While the rose itself is immaculate; I cannot say the same for the vase, which is heavily frosted with opaque rings of limescale. The water itself is like bog water; thick and rancid with plant detritus, as if the otherwise flawless rose had been sitting in it for weeks. I get the feeling that my secret admirer was trying to make some sort of statement here, but I'll be damned if I can figure out what it means. Perhaps the water is meant to symbolize the ugliness of the world, and the rose symbolizes pure, truest love that flourishes untouched by the world's evil. No, that's stupid.

    Another thing that stands out is the message on the tag. It reads: "Tonight, I've come for you." On the surface, this seems routine for a secret admirer; I always loved seeing a woman's initial reaction when I showed up at her doorstep to reveal myself. But the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Why should it be written in the present tense? Would it not make more sense to say, 'Tonight, I will come for you'? I tell myself that I must simply be reading too much into it; she is probably just a lousy writer. Plus, the overall wording sounded a bit belligerent. But such harsh judgment is likely due my traditionalist sensibilities coming into play. Objectively, there is nothing wrong, in and of itself, with a bit of dominance in a woman.

    After chiding myself for briefly allowing traditionalism to slide into mild sexism, I wracked my brain for ideas on who might be admiring me from afar. I had been busy with work for a while now and have had precious little time for flirtation, so the list was thusly narrow. The only one who had recently expressed any interest in me was the dowdy yet kindly janitor who lives in the apartment across from mine. I normally wouldn't deign to court such a woman, but I cannot help but admire her boldness. It was surely no small feat for her to approach a most eligible bachelor such as me. What courage! It would be utterly heartless of me to turn her away! Gentleman as I am, I resolved to reward her bravery with the greatest night of romance she will ever have, even though nothing could ever come of it. Truth be told, I even find myself looking forward to it. Homely as she was, she had proven to be pleasant enough company in the few times I had spoken with her.

    With a tune in my heart, I donned my best suit and set about the tedious pre-date grooming ritual so I might look my best. I seated myself near the door and awaited my admirer's arrival. The hours ticked by: seven, eight, and nine, yet not a soul showed up. Alas and Alack! I have been stood up! No matter; her nerves probably just got the better of her.

    As I set about undressing, I was somewhat startled by the dainty clink of the mail slot, followed by the rattling thump of a small package. It was a small, unassuming box of chocolates; the sort you might find at any drugstore. More than likely, they were something of an apology for leaving me hanging. I do not begrudge her for getting cold feet, and though it still feels awkward to be the one receiving gifts, I accepted this small token with gratitude. As for the rest of my night, I decided that Walter White and friends would have to suffice for company. I set the chocolates on my computer desk and got comfortable, ready for a night of hedonistic binge-watching.

    I lost track of how long I sat at my computer, immersed in a world of drug related shenanigans. I was eventually wrested from its hypnotic embrace by the vulgar rumbling of my empty stomach. As I got up and headed toward the kitchen, I noticed the rose sitting on my bookshelf. An irrational feeling of unease washed over me. Though there was no clear reason for it, there was a pervading fog of sheer wrongness weighing heavily in the room. I suddenly found that I no longer trusted my window. My gaze shot over to it, expecting to see someone lurking about the fire escape, but I saw nothing. Even so, I drew the curtains shut.

    I tried to brush it off as I searched the kitchen for something to eat, yet my mind was fixated on the image of sullen eyes peering at me covertly. Despite having drawn the curtains, I still felt vulnerable, as if those very eyes were scrutinizing and passing judgment on my every action. As I sat back at my desk, I noticed the untouched chocolates waiting for me. For some indiscernible reason, I began to fear them. The more I stared at them, the more hostile they seemed, like a mouse trap growing impatient at a display of mousy indecision.

    Strangely, I also began craving sweets. I generally eat healthy, and have kept my kitchen largely empty of the sweeter things. The steamed vegetables and rice steadily grew more unappealing as my neglected sweet tooth cried out for attention. I glared at the chocolates, annoyed at myself for indulging in the ugly superstition of fearing such an innocuous object. More to spite myself than anything, I tore off the cellophane wrapping, plucked one of the chocolates from its tray, and glared at the small candied sphere. Shrugging off the irrational stab of panic, I popped it into my mouth. Much to my disdain, it was completely stale. I guess my instincts were accurate; though a bit melodramatic.

    I finished the entire box nonetheless. 'Waste not, want not' I always say. Strangely, as the last of the stale chocolates disappeared down my throat, that stifling, alien feeling of unease vanished, leaving me alone with Bryan Cranston's paused face peering out at me through my computer screen. I sat there staring at the empty packaging. I knew this brand; it was the very same one that I had purchased for my first girlfriend on Valentine's Day. No one had a more voracious sweet tooth than her. How ironic, then, that she should tragically choke to death on one of them. She always said she would die for chocolate. How was I supposed to know she meant it literally?

    And oh, how I wept! What a tragedy for such a beautiful soul to have been wrenched away from the world before she truly had a chance to bless it with her grace! Yet I knew I had to move on, and I resolved to let my love for her live on to be given to another soul as lovely as hers. I sat there, clutching the candy wrapping to my chest as I pined for my lost love. But that bittersweet feeling was crushed out of me as I heard what I swear sounded like footsteps in the hallway. I froze and listened as they grew fainter and fainter until they ended with the soft clicks of my front door opening and then closing.