Flat-out.

Don't know what to do. What to do?
What to do.

His name is Xander L. Flatford. Perhaps the only specimen of the male sex that has ever let his eyes rest on my eyes instead of letting them just glide past them. He was indeed special. He could do that thing with his face, it made him look extremely strange, but he knew as he would do that, I would burst out into laughter. He could listen, his ears always open, his mouth asking questions, his fingers playing with mine, his head nodding. Wow, what happened?

Thinking back to it, I can't believe I did what I did. I mean, the memories, seem like some Hollywood film. Flashes of us smiling, washing my hallway stairs, he would always help me with that. He would cook me a nice thai stir fry and feed it to me, piece after piece, smiling, laughing, his eyes sparkling from the candlelights. His laughter came out nice and light, afflicted by the wine as he was. He was no poet. He was though, ironically, brilliant with words. His voice would make my knees weak, it would soften my spine, make my face glow with heat.

Xander had two years of schooling as a journalist behind him. For obvious reasons he couldn't finish it. And that's how I met him, at Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class. To be honest, that's the most silly name of a phobia that could ever exist! It frightens away it's own patients from telling them whats wrong with themselves. A phobia that is against long words that consists of over 30 letters, that's pretty silly.
Anyway, taking those classes together for five months was enough. After sitting in that room, for hours, feeling that heavy chemistry just thickening the room (worse would it be if we by accident touched) and the looks. His deep brown eyes. Wow. Yeah, it was more than enough.

I'm naturally hard to get I think. Always avoiding eye contact, blushing if it would occur. Stare obviously in another direction, freeze if I'd be touched, with Xander it was worse than ever. Without knowing it, I guess that's how I kept him interested for so long. By being something he couldn't achieve, precious, mysterious. Ai, ai. His eyes could show his lust so clearly at times, I didn't know what else to do, but to just smile, desperately trying to hide a face flourishing with colour. His confidence wasn't even intimidating, it was just another one of those things with him. I was free together with him, could talk to him about everything.

We finished our Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class in May together. Spent a lovely weekend in Boxford with him. But from then on, it just all slipped a part.

Not very clearly. We just glided away from each other. Our conversations didn't loose their spark or chemistry, on the contrary. We just didn't have the time to talk. Classes and courses occupying most of my time, Xander finally returning to his education after 7 months rehabilitating. We were both busy. We didn't call, didn't meet. But I refuse to think either of us actually forgot. Would be hard to do so.

That way Mr. Flatford, flat-out disappeared out of my life. He just disappeared. Haven't talked to him for two months. It wasn't until this morning after I'd taken my usual medication, that I wrapped up in blankets and stared hard out the window. A cold wind tatooing the feeling of tears to my cheeks. My eyes edged with red, I went to Russophobia class this morning. My lector told me tears was a way of the mind to free itself of waste. I cried all the way home on the bus.

- "Salty tears, I'd lick them off your cheeks and whisper silent words to you, to your ears only" He had told me. He had embraced me, squeezed me tight, promised me that he wouldn't ever let me go.
But he did.

Finding my desk is now just covered in tears and it's nearly time for Nelophobia Therapy Circle, I'll end it here.

/Frannie