I am aware of his presence. Even without looking up from the cards in my hand, I know he has just entered the saloon. My nerve endings are tingling painfully. As if a thousand tiny needles were embedded in my flesh. Not the most pleasant of analogies, I realize. But then, it is not the most pleasant of sensations. The old saying "Love Hurts" may be taken quite literally, in my case.I toss some money into the pot on the table in front of me. I am hardly aware of doing so. Most of my attention is focused on the tall, lean figure making his way, with quick, determined strides, towards the bar. He orders a whiskey and sips it slowly as he turns to survey the room. His gaze slides over me and I smile eagerly. Rather like a dog wagging its tail in hopes of a pat on the head from his Master I think in disgust. But when he nods his head in return and quirks his lips upward in what may be construed as a smile by the charitably inclined, I feel amply rewarded.
Having received my "pat on the head", so to speak, I am able to concentrate on the game long enough to win all the money my fellow players are willing to part with. And a good deal that they weren't. If only a certain heart could be won this easily. I muse wistfully. UUGGHHH! I cannot believe I just gave voice to that thought. I detest sentiment. Especially the maudlin kind. I never used to suffer from that particular affliction. Until he came along. But I seem to do a number of things nowadays that would have been unimaginable in my former life.
Love seems to be making a new man of me. I wonder what Mother would say? Something along the lines of what a fool I am, no doubt. And perhaps she would be correct. A part of me would even agree with her. But a bigger part of me refuses to believe that. The part born when a cool, steady gaze reached into my soul and offered me a precious gift. The gift of trust.
No one had ever trusted me before. The feelings that engendered frightened me more than any drunken, angry lynch mob ever had. Frightened me enough that I almost cast it aside. You know, I still occasionally dream about that day. I dream that I never came back. Or that I come back too late. And you lay there, broken and bleeding in the dirt in that godforsaken village, cursing my name as you die. I wake up screaming. It is a truly terrifying dream.
I know that one day we will go our seperate ways. I entertain no illusions that you will ever return my feelings. But that day is not now.
Now I am still able to see you. The sunlight shining on your hair, turning it into spun gold. The grace and strength apparent in your body as you lean casually against the bar.
To hear you. You soft voice. Like silk and steel. You have no idea how seductive that voice is.
And even, occasionally, to touch you. A casual hand on the shoulder. A brushing of fingertips as we both reach for something.
I hoard these memories like a miser hoards his gold. One day, all too soon, they will be all I have left. Yes indeed, Mr. Larabee. Loving you hurts. It is my misfortune that not loving you hurts even worse.
THE END