There For Me

I sit in front of my computer, the tapping of the keys as I type temporarily taking precedence over the music. I’m trying not to let it, but my mind is wandering, my consciousness picking up the rhythm and lyrics emanating from the speakers. My typing slows as I lose my rhythm and I curse inwardly. I was on a roll there.

The tapping keys stop as I turn to look at the books and papers, spread haphazardly on the desk next to me. The paper I want is right at the bottom and a sheaf falls to the floor as I sort through the pile. I curse quietly and pick them up, before retrieving the sheet I need. I pore over the coursework specification for the hundredth time, vainly searching for some snippet of information that will make this question simple and instantaneously easy. Intellectually, I know it’s futile, but there’s still the barren hope that looking at the words that I’ve nearly memorised will restart my brain.

The music calls to me again and my mouth pick out a few words, my untuned voice trying to hit a couple of notes. I know, that you think, I shouldn’t still love you or talk to you again. But if I didn’t say it, I still would have felt it. Where’s the sense in that? A song about unrequited love. Quite a depressing one actually; not something you’d expect from someone as cheerful happy as Dido. Ironic considering it’s our song.

I turn my head to look at her. She’s curled up on my bed with her book, the duvet curled loosely around her body. Her head is resting on her hand and she’s engrossed in the story. My own book is calling to me now. There’s nothing I’d like more than to go over and join her on the bed, so we could curl up together.

She looks up and sees me staring at her. I turn back to the computer screen, guilty at having been caught slacking. It ends up being a double-take as I turn back to her, wanting to watch those beautiful blue-green eyes. It’s weird, her eyes seem so flawless, so perfect when I’m staring at them, but they’re never the same twice; sometimes green, sometimes blue, but always clear and pure, like a precious jewel.

She smiles at me and I feel my lips curl in an automatic response. It never feels strange, smiling at her. I’ve never found it easy to keep a straight face, I’m usually smiling or glum, but ninety-nine percent of the time I’m very conscious of my smile. One of my sister’s friends once told me that I had a really cute smile and since then I’ve always been very aware of it. The best way to impress a girl is to smile at her; the cute lop-sided grin that I actually cultivated when I was younger.

It’s not about that now though. I have no need to impress any of the girls in the house. Sure I want them to like me, but I don’t want them to fancy me. I used to want girls to fancy me. I certainly used to fancy lots of girls.

Her smile broadens and she turns back to her book. I watch her for a second before returning to the computer screen. I don’t want to do Java. I want to turn around and watch her again. The realisation hits me that I’m no longer using my smile anymore. I’m not smiling because she’ll think I’m cute, I’m not smiling to make her smile, I’m not smiling to show her that I’m happy. I’m barely even aware I’m smiling until I think about it. This is a smile from the heart, from the soul.

I realise I’m still beaming as I’m thinking of her. She’s taken my smile and now she gets it whenever I see her and whenever I think about her. Whenever my mind wanders to her snuggled safely in my arms, or whenever she knocks on my door after her lectures. My smile broadens further and I’m swamped by an overwhelming urge to go over and wrap my arms around her, feel her comforting warmth pressed tightly to me.

I resist and content myself with turning my head to look at her. She’s snuggled further into the duvet now, curled up under the covers with only her head poking out. The book’s abandoned now and her head is resting on the pillow. A few rogue strands of hair are draped across her face and I really want to reach out and brush them back, not to move them from her eyes, but as an excuse to touch her.

I rock back further on the chair, my eyes still fixed on her. I wonder briefly whether she’s asleep, but her eyelid flutter open as she feels my eyes on her and I get to stare into those wonderful eyes again. She smiles as she sees me looking at her and my beam stretches wider in childish pleasure at making her happy. My hand reaches out and I stroke her forehead and over her hair and I can hear my voice softly croon the last few words to her. I’m in love, and always will be.

Her smile broadens at the words and I feel a warmth rush through my body. They’re not just the words, they’re our words. The meaning of the song doesn’t matter, not the tune, nor the lyrics. It’s part of the moment we shared, one of hundreds that continue to redefine what I think of as happiness and includes the three small words that contain the greatest truth I’ve ever known. I touch her hand briefly, feeling the connection between us and mouth them to her, meaning them with my body and soul.

Then I rock forward, tipping the chair onto all four legs again, needing to continue working, but safe in the knowledge that every time I turn around, she’ll be there.

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