Second Chances

There's a cold, clammy, tight grip on your heart, I don't know whose. This is not a heart attack. This is not angina. This is not a cardiovascular event, as those nice hospital TV shows call them. This is pure, unadulterated panic. The feeling that you get when that dodgy-looking ten-year old turboprop threatens to fall out of the sky every time there is a hint of turbulence. That feeling when your heart sinks and rises so fast that you get a feeling of sea-sickness though you are nowhere near a body of water. That feeling that makes time slow down and speed up at the same time and you are not sure that you can make a decision, that you should make a decision.

That moment she catches you staring at her, with neither smile nor frown, deep in thought and you answer her question without processing it. You blurt out the first true words, recklessly, selfishly, foolishly - and immediately panic. Unless you are a sociopath, your heart stops and in those milliseconds your brain freezes, your knees turn to jelly and the need to evacuate your bowels is suddenly very, very acute. You are temporarily blinded, so you don't know if she's happy with whatever foolishness you have come up with. That feeling. Cold. Grip. Heart. Panic!

You have a choice, neither palatable. Your mouth is dry, your tongue is sandpaper, your lips are ashen despite the pounds of lip balm you endure fr her comfort. Whatever you say now, whatever you think now, she will never look at you the same way again, or so your slowly recovering puny mental faculties - all atwitter - chatter over and over and over. Escape is impossible. The door is shut and locked. That path is verboten.

Now you can see her face, her eyes. You try to see her words, so you stare at her lips...stare and stare, yet you can't see whether she is happy or not. She is better at this than you ever will be. She has a better poker face than yours. It's neutral. It's inscrutable. Quite frankly, that panic that had began to subside, is resuscitated twice as potent. Your pulse quickens and the blood rushes to your ears, an Atlantic of rushing noise that builds and builds and builds until you think that you can't take it any more. Your vision blurs again. Tears threaten to pour, making tracks on your suddenly pallid facial hide.

You're so tired. Why can't she see how tired you are? That space behind your eyes, the one that throbs every time you do too many things at once, starts acting up, the throb comes back, and the pain is almost debilitating. It is so intense that you need to lie down, just for a minute or else you will throw up all over her nice throw rug. Why the fuck did she ask you that question? What are you going to say? How are you going to say it? Will she still be happy?

That moment comes. You know the one that always ends badly? That moment when the pulse stabilizes - it's still to fast, but bearable? That moment when you get it into your head that you are smart, that "I got this!" is the moment every man alive knows to be the Worst Moment of My Life! Your square your shoulders. You give her what you think was your signature, winning smile. You open your mouth. And stuff your feet in it. It is a wonder she isn't rolling on the floor laughing her ass off. It is a miracle that she is still there, with you, watching you spin yourself into purgatory. Luckily for you, it is twelve days to the Day of Love. Good luck. Second chances are what chicken teeth make us think they are.