We’ve been friends since elementary, you and me. Back then you were even shorter than you are now, which is saying a lot, and I was only a little taller than you, which is saying a whole heck of a lot. You were never actually taller than me, you know, but you came close one time when you were going through all those growth spurts and I was stuck at 5 feet tall. Lucky for me I hit puberty before you reached 5 feet, or I would have cut your feet off or something. I always had a problem with the idea of you being taller than me, and I think it’s because I don’t feel like I could protect you like I need to if you weren’t so pixie-like in proportion.

Your height is pretty convenient. You’re just at comfortable my-arm-around-your-shoulder height when we’re walking through the halls, and I like that. We’re in those halls right now, walking, and that’s why my mind is having this imaginary soliloquy, pretending I’m actually talking to you.

“Hey, ya know what?” you pipe up, and I pretty well have to drag my eyes away from your lips, because you put on that really nice-looking lip gloss again.

“What?”

“My birthday’s in a week!” you exclaim.

“6 days,” I correct automatically. I’m going to make a damn fantastic husband someday because of this memory. Forgotten birthdays and anniversaries are problems other men will have to try and talk themselves out of, but not me! This mind is a steel trap.

You look mildly impressed at my assertion, and I have to say I like it when you admire something about me. “That’s right,” you smile. “So did you get me a gift?”

Of course I got you a gift, just like every year.

“Nah,” I say with a smirk. “I forgot.”

You smack my arm and make an annoyed face at me. I wouldn’t tease you if I didn’t love that annoyance. You get over it so fast, though. That’s one of those things I notice about you: you never seem to hold on to any negative emotion for very long. You don’t hold grudges, you don’t get really mad, or really annoyed, or really frustrated hardly ever. And I know you’re really ticked off about something if you bring it up more than an hour after it happened, because usually you’ve moved on by then.

Wow, is it weird that I know that? Is it weird that I’m zoned out, thinking about you and only you? One of these days I swear I’m going to tell you that I don’t want to be just friends with you anymore. You deserve to know how I feel about you, and I’m not going to be one of those jerks that tries to wait around for you to make the first move. After 8 years, I know how you want guys to treat you, and you definitely want them to be the initiators. But I’m pretty well terrified you don’t feel the same way, because when it comes to reading your emotions about me, I’m lost. Asking you to be my girlfriend is going to be like jumping out a plane without knowing if my parachute’s going to work.

I’ve been quiet for about a minute, thinking, but the silence isn’t ever uncomfortable. I think that’s cool- how me and you can just walk together and not feel like we’ve got to fill those gaps in conversation.

We get to your classroom, and I reluctantly pull my arm off your shoulder. You really are short.

“Bye,” you say, with that beautiful smile, and turn away.

“What, no goodbye kiss?” I say without thinking. That came out of freaking nowhere, and I about freeze up, scared you’re gonna take it the wrong way.

“You wish,” you laugh without turning around.

Yeah, I do.