Surprisingly, I was alone in the waiting area, surrounded by cardboard boxes and stacked trays of food that were going to be served for lunch, later. My doctor’s office was on my right, in a wide corridor. The lighting in hospitals is so awful, so cruelly bright. They tried to make up for it here by painting the walls orange. For the first little while my gaze was fixated on the right, at every sound my heart began a race, but then I started to wonder how I would react when he would actually appear from behind his office door. Would I stare at him walking down towards me, would he stare back or look down, would he enjoy the attention, should I get up, would that make him feel more comfortable, perhaps less scrutinized, but then how uneasy would I feel if he had to make a stop before greeting me, would I pretend that I had stood up to straighten my skirt? I had already taken my jacket off. I figured the easiest option was to look busy, so I took my phone, a magazine, my book, some gum, a bottle of water, and some lip gloss out of my purse. It looked very unnatural, made me seem messy, immature, ready for an abstract picnic with no paper plates and no treats. I decided to put everything back in except the magazine. I wondered if I should be thinking of Mark. I dropped the lip gloss, and as I reached down to pick it up I saw his shoes, right in front of me, I heard his voice, he was talking to me. For a very brief moment, I hope, I stayed down there and examined his shoes. They were black, with just the right amount of shine, and as I looked at his shoes I imagined his lips, effortlessly positioning themselves to release magnificent sounds, vowels and consonants, words, his sensual, cushy lips. Every word reminded me of a minuscule yet infinitely sexy pillow fight. I liked being close to his shoes, it felt intimate. I could imagine taking them off and then removing his socks, massaging his feet. I also had the bizarre desire to hug his legs, the urge to kiss them. I am not sure how long I stayed down there but getting up quickly gave me a rush. He grabbed my arm to help me. We smiled at each other, he was exactly how I had remembered him. A lover of everything. Polite, sociable, amicable, completely at ease, and everything loved him back, and most likely also everybody, everything was his, but he wasn’t arrogant about it, even if he was evidently aware of it. And how could he not be? And it was this awareness that was so seductive, this understated self-confidence. Of course he was also elegant, and I was surprised by the beauty of his eyes, I hadn’t remembered them being so striking, even after so much staring. I felt fine. He was sublime, but I wasn’t intimidated this time. Amazed at how much longing I had in me, stunned by the strength, the resilience, and the intensity of my craving. Breathtaking passion, as delirious as mine was, I cherished it. And even then I was pretty sure that there was more to it, that underneath the passion there was another layer, and then another, that the discoveries were as thrilling as they were innumerable. And one layer didn’t have to cancel the other, tumult and tranquillity were not necessarily exclusive in time or quality. Love then, I suppose.
Except where stated, all material copyright © Emmanuelle Dauplay.