Dear Future Husband,
Where are you?
And what’s taking you so long to find me? Haven’t you read that “he who finds a wife finds a good thing?”
There are a lot of good things waiting over here. (Believe it or not, you’ll come to love my direct communication and inability to beat-around-the-bush.)
Lately, you have crossed my mind quite a bit. A thought of you may fleetingly cross my mind when I see a couple holding hands or I intrude on a private moment between father and daughter. I’ve prayed for you and look forward to the day we meet.
I wonder if we have already met or crossed paths. Perhaps we have admired another from afar. Maybe I’ve noticed your impeccable style. Or, the way you wore your hat made me look twice. Perhaps it was your presence as you walked in the room. A humble confidence that turned the heads of those paying attention along with those who weren’t.
The young lady to your right gives you a once-over along with a smile to signal that she likes what she sees. The brother to your left gives you the nod of respect and continues his conversation. Another woman elbows her friend and stares at you even after you have walked past. You smile at the little boy in the stroller who has slobber running down his chin and gave you a two-toothed grin before his mom started fussing with him. Your stride is long but not hurried. Your t-shirt is rumpled as if you grabbed it from the laundry pile that is waiting to be folded. Yet, it still matches your basketball shorts and sneakers that you threw on after you got home from work.
You’re slightly embarrassed to be another person crowding the neighborhood Starbucks but justify it by saying that its so close to home. You order a tea because its late in the evening but you still have some work to get done. Maybe you’re working on closing an important deal or your team was assigned a new assignment that you are leading since the last one went so smoothly. You didn’t feel like sitting in the house now that the weather has warmed up. There is an electricity in the air because summer is here and people are out and about later than usual.
You contemplated going to the gym instead of working late but have plans to go to boxing class tomorrow. If you go too hard two days in a row, you won’t be any good for the weekend and will want to crawl around your house and sleep the pain away. You are also grabbing dinner with a friend so you will need this evening to get a jumpstart and prevent working through the weekend.
You scan the room to see if there are any open seats. Not the hard wooden chairs that left your back sore on your last visit but the soft worn-in cushions that have been broken-in by one bottom too many. The thought of cozying up on a seat outside of the house doesn’t gross you out the way it would me. You’re clean but not a germaphobe. Plus, with having a slob for a roommate for most of your young adult years, you have learned to let your guard down on trying to be Mr. Clean. You prefer a seat that is facing the door because you like to see people enter the room. Your father always taught you that a man doesn’t sit with his back to the door.
As you scan the room, you notice a woman bobbing her head to whatever is coming out of her earphones. She has big, curly hair that is a bit unruly yet somehow in place. She’s wearing black work out pants and bright orange Nikes that coordinate with her t-shirt that has “West Coast” written across the front. It is oversized and hangs off of her left shoulder, revealing a tattoo that you can’t quite make out what it says. Her big, silver hoops are so big they almost brush her collarbone. She is sitting at one of the tall tables with her MacBook open and tapping one of the keys repeatedly. She seems frustrated and has a grimace on her face as if something stinks. She turns over her phone to look at the screen but quickly turns it back over and pushes it into her pocket. She starts staring at the same two-toothed little boy that is now stuffing his foot into his mouth. Her grimace softens and the smile in her eyes almost reaches her mouth.
Something about her has captured your attention. Even as you make a beeline for the cushioned chair that just opened up and begin working, you find yourself stealing glances of her and noticing something new that you like each time. She has a slight addiction to chapstick because she has applied a new layer on her lips at least three times since you’ve seen her. She is enjoying the music she’s listening too because she is dancing through her shoulders while she continues to type. She smiles at people as they walk by or when she catches them staring.
You look towards her once more. My eyes are staring right back at you. I smile.
