But what if there was never going to be a right time? Itâ€™s very difficult to suddenly turn round one day and say â€œOh, and by the way, I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.â€ There needs to be some sort of catalyst, some sort of entry to the subject, before it can even be considered.
*â€œDave said something really weird yesterday.â€*
She was talking, but Chris wasnâ€™t paying any attention to her. His mind was elsewhere, playing hopscotch in a sea of fantasies and desires. He pictured the two of them on a beach, or in a meadow, or somewhere else peaceful and isolated. Heâ€™d be looking deep into her eyes, and running his fingers through her hair, and maybe theyâ€™d be eating pork pies on a picnic blanket, and running barefoot through the surf.
*â€œHe just randomly announced that he loves me. I was quite surprised.â€*
Chris was snapped back into reality. A sudden intake of breath.
*â€œYeah. Can you imagine that? Spending years pretending to be my friend, and then… this!â€*
Chris kept his focus firmly on the pavement. He studied the regularity of the slabs, the moss that grew in the cracks, the way that the roots from the trees were forcing the surface up and causing large bumps in the ground every few feet.
*â€œI think that Iâ€™m avoiding him now.â€*
Chris briefly tested his mouth for moisture and stability. He didnâ€™t want this next sentence to come out all squeaky or shaky.
â€œYeah, I don’t blame you. God, what a weirdo.â€
Well, that answers that then.