Once I left a poem under a girl’s pillow. I was young, and I thought I was in love. Not knowing much of such things, but imagining that such a gesture would impress, I took my opportunity at a party she threw.
At school a few days later she asked to speak to me. My heart leapt.
We agreed to have a conversation after school and I drove us to a pretty pub in the old part of our town where we sat outside and drank pints of cider.
The day was hot, hot. She looked so pretty I could hardly look at her. Big green eyes framed by long, fair hair.
She told the story of the mysterious poem and, raising her eyes to meet mine, said she thought it might have been from me.
I lost my courage.
“No! Man, I wish I had the guts to leave love poems under girls’ pillows, but no it wasn’t me!”
“Oh,” she said. “You see, I kind of hoped it was from you.”
“I see,” I replied, bliss rising in my stomach. “Well, no, it wasn’t me i’m afraid. But I wonder who it was from.”
Her eyes dropped, and I died a little inside.