The Apple of My Eye

Respectable

Can you do me a favor and get out of my thoughts for a while so I can concentrate on my work?

With that mix of corny and romantic—maybe  a bit more corny than romantic—I texted Star this message one morning in early December just before leaving home to go to work. I knew she would be there—at work, that is—and I could tell her when I arrived, via Skype, to give my thoughts a break, or wait until later that day to tell her, face to face, that I just couldn't seem to get her out of my mind. But I was at that stage where you think about the girl you're crazy in love with all the fucking time—to your own disbelief. You throw all caution to the wind, and actually make a point to let her know how obsessed with her you are. I wasn't afraid she'd think me pushy or needy. At this point, she was acting just as pushy and needy and corny and romantic as I was. We were living in lovers' paradise, where everything you see and hear reminds you of your inamorata and makes you wish you were sharing the moment with her.

"I gotta tell Star about this," I'd often think.

"I wish Star was here to see this so we could laugh about it together," was another all-time favorite.

And she was no different. She'd tell me stories about the most insignificant details of her day, and I'd just drool with interest every time. And to think I was the kind of guy who hated hearing silly stories about anyone's day, especially the typical stories told by a wife or girlfriend—I am not proud to admit. But Star was neither wife nor girlfriend. We were still in the getting-to-know-each-other phase, and at that phase you just allow yourself to act stupid. You just marvel at the uncommon luck that is to be in the company of that one girl, to see that she's looking at you with uncensored admiration, counting herself to be lucky, too. If only all love stories felt like they do at the beginning for longer than just the beginning. I guess it's true what they say: fools really do rush in. But if I was acting like a fool, then that's just what I wanted to be, no two ways about it. I was not only in love with Star, but with the whole gamut of mirific, mind-marmalizing sensations being in love with her made me feel. There was just so much to look forward to, so much she and I still had to share, the passion we had had a taste of and now longed for more, the sexual intensity we had yet to experience, and, most importantly, the simple comfort of each other's presence.

Star was texting me all sorts of cutesy little nothings, too, telling me this was the most intense love story she had ever been a part of, the most intense emotion she had ever felt, and how much she wanted this to last—which was a lot, mind you. I'd reply with such prophecies as, "our story will last for years" and "we will only not end up together if you decide to leave me." And you know what? I meant every word. Each and every word. I could actually see myself building a new life with Star by my side, as my girlfriend, my bride, my woman, the mother of all my unborn children. Man, I was disastrously in love. Like never before. Like never since.

So much love, overflowing as it was, was certainly not going to go unnoticed by those around me and Star, respectively. Chloe had always had a nasty habit of going through my cellie whenever I left it unattended—I know, blame me for leaving it unattended, right?—and it's not like she was trying to kick that habit now that we were no longer together. One weekend, one or two days after texting Star an implausible number of love notes—and receiving an equally unbelievable number of equally loving replies—it just so happened that I left my phone on the kitchen counter or someplace like that as I went inside Victoria's bedroom—in the apartment that had once been mine, yes—to pick her up and take her home with me. Wouldn't you know my estranged wife picked it up and had just about enough time to read half a dozen said messages? Then when I ran into her on my way out and realized what had transpired, I felt this sudden surge of guilt come over me, as if I had been cheating on her and had just been caught red-handed—which was definitely not the case, but old habits die hard, I guess, and so do the feelings that go along with them. If anything, it was she who had been caught red-handed, right? Anyway, I motioned for her to give me the phone, and she did. Neither of us said a word, but she gave me this gimlet-eyed look like she was feeling duped and forlorn and it was all my fault, naturally.