He Knew the Route. I Was Still Catching Up

 

(a romantic disorientation)

He slowed his steps near the curb.

Not out of hesitation—

but timing.

Like a man syncing his heartbeat to a moment only he could see.

I followed, unaware.

One foot midair, midstride,

already calculating how to meet the painted crosswalk in step.

Just trying to keep pace.

Just trying to cross the street.

And then—

a tug.

A pivot.

A spin.

The kind of move you don’t learn—

you just know when it’s time.

And somehow I landed—

not on the other side of the road—

but against him.

Chest.

Arms.

Lips.

My brain did not approve this motion.

My breath didn’t clock in for this shift.

But my body…

my body said yes before I could ask the question.

---

It wasn’t sensual.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t playful.

It was something else.

Something like a statement.

Like a seal.

Like a man who had already played out this scene a hundred times in his mind

and was now, finally, letting the film roll.

And me?

I was the actress who missed the table read,

but still delivered the line

because instinct knew the script.

---

When it ended—if it ended at all—

he took my hand.

As if he knew I couldn’t move on my own.

As if the kiss had removed my ability to trust the sidewalk.

As if leading me forward was less about romance

and more about re-entry.

He walked.

Composed.

Measured.

Completely aware of the walk signal

and the stopped traffic.

And I…

I had to reintroduce myself to Earth.

---

By the time we reached my friend on the other side,

I said nothing.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t smile.

Just floated into conversation

like I hadn’t just been

claimed without warning.

---

He knew the route.

Planned the detour.

Stuck the landing.

And I’m still standing there—

days, months, years later—

wondering if I ever really crossed the street.

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