Get the Message

Today’s the day I tell you how I feel. I’ve been agonizing over this for months. I’m not sure I can put into words how tingly I feel when you touch me, or even when you talk to me. I know we don’t really talk much—you do most of the talking, I just do my job—but I think we can make it work. We’ve been together for nearly a year, after all. I think I’m ready to take the chance.

I remember the first time I saw you. It was the day I came out of the dark and finally saw the sun. And when you smiled at me—I thought I was going to die. You were so beautiful, and you smiled at me. Little old me. It was like the world had only begun to turn. Who needed sun when I had you? The sun can’t smile, after all. And it certainly isn’t as radiant as you.

I wish you knew instinctively. I wish you could know how beautiful, smart, kind, funny, and talented you are. You’re everything I wish I could be. There’s only one thing that could make you more perfect, and that would be if you noticed me and the way I feel about you. You don’t talk to me very often. You talk to my co-workers more than you talk to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re all very lovely. But I’m the one who really understands you. That sounds so silly, I know. But I’m the one who hears your failures and your triumphs, and I love you all the more for it every day of my existence. If only they understood what you mean to me. You give me purpose. You give me a reason to go on working day after day after day. I’m the one who saves all of your important messages. I’m the one who has to report the bad news and the good news. I know everything, and I’m still so madly, deeply, passionately in love with you.

But today’s the day. The day I tell you something other than what it’s my job to say. Something like “Your sweater looks particularly nice today, Jim,” or “I’m madly, deeply, passionately in love with you,” or “Your booty be poppin’ in dem jeans.” Okay, maybe not that last one. I don’t want to seem too forward, even if it is true.

The key just turned in the lock. You’re home. This is it. This is my moment. I flip on the red light and it blinks slowly. This is it, Jim. This is the day I tell you. You’re in the door. Hurry, Jim, I can’t wait. There’s something important here, something I need to tell you.

You dump your keys on the counter and I feel like I might die. No! I have to be strong. This is the perfect chance. Today will be the day.

Oh, Jim. You’re so close to me. You must have seen the light. You must know that I have something important to tell you. You just don’t know that it’s my pledge of love and devotion.

You see me. You look so unconcerned as you reach your hand out to me, as if this was a casual and unremarkable moment and not the moment that holds our happiness in the balance. Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel that electric tingle in the air that carries the promise of a better, brighter, lovelier tomorrow?

You push the button. “You have one new message,” I say. This is it this is the moment. The moment I tell you . The moment I say—

Nothing. This is the moment I completely freeze. My words won’t come out. Instead of romantic words of love and devotion, there is only a fuzzy silence.

You swear. “Seriously? This is the fifth time this month!” You slam your hand on the counter, causing me to bounce. “I swear,” you say, shaking, “if I get one more phantom call, I’m changing my number!”

So today isn’t the day. And neither were the other five times this month.

But next time. Next time will be the time.

Probably.