Dear Girl that sits across from me in English class,

Maybe you thought at the beginning of the semester that you wouldn’t be the apple of my eye. Maybe you thought that I was just too — what’s the word — pulchritudinous.

Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m like that. It’s hard for me not to be. I think you know it too, and I wouldn’t hesitate to call you pulchritudinous as well.

I know you see me. I know you know I see you.

It’s beautiful, and you don’t have to hide. Please, just come out and say it. It’s okay. Maybe you don’t realize it is what you want. Maybe the flood of emotions is too much for you right now. Maybe you just need a day or two to sort it out and talk with your girlfriends. Maybe read the latest advice in Cosmo.

But I’m telling you girl, you don’t need to hesitate. I’m here for you all over, oh yeah. And if my seductive, thoughtful poses in class and the way I raise my finger oh-so-slightly when I want to ask a question or comment intelligibly on Emerson aren’t enough, I’ll go ahead and tell you how I know you know I know you want to freak with me.

First, you chose to sit across from me. I knew from day two, when you chose the same seat across the way for the second day in a row that you wanted the best spot in class, the only spot where you could bite your lip at me and look up from all that crazy scribbling you’re always doing.

Don’t think I don’t notice the way you are always writing in that thing, that notebook or whatever it is. I notice. I know what it is you are writing, too. It probably goes something like this: “P. You are hot, wicked hot. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen anything so hot, not even boiling water.” Damn, girl, that’s sweet. Then again, you might be writing my last name behind your first name to see what it will look like when you give in to my sweet P-love.

Second, I know you want to get with me because when you talk, your face gets all freaky, with crazy blotches breaking out all over the place. It looks like someone superimposed a map of the world on your face. Some people may think it’s some kind of weird disease or something, but I don’t. Oh no. I know those blotches are actually “love stains.” You don’t need to be afraid. I know all about you. Even something as hideous as those crazy spots won’t drive me away because I know what they truly are.

Third, I could tell once and for all you were going to be with me and that our love was more than just some Magic Eight Ball prophecy when I followed you home from class last week.

I tried to be smooth and stay at a safe distance, but when I saw you under the little bridge on your way to Frederiksen Court, I had to fall on my knees and yell out your name. Even though it fell only on the innocent ears of the horses, the world had to know.

As I sat and watched you, waiting for a reply, I knew, as you did, that deep down my love runs deep inside you.

It runs through your esophagus into your stomach. Part of it runs through your liver and some more through your kidneys. A little even makes it through your small and large intestines. I’m in you girl, and you running away that day was only more proof that the rich P-love, like cheesecake, is best handled in small bites. I understand you weren’t ready for a full fork of love that day, which is why I followed you until someone called the police and I had to hide in the bushes until it got dark.

Fourth, well, I don’t really need to go on, do I? I think we can both act like the adults we are. Girl, let’s not hide it anymore. You can try all you want, but no medications or court orders will make our love go away. You can pretend it isn’t so, girl. You can pretend all you want.

You can pretend that when I talk to you, you don’t see me, or that when I give you my look, you don’t get chills up and down your back.

Sometimes you pretend too hard, and I don’t know if you are thinking of me like I think of you but then, ah damn, girl, I don’t think I could even live if that were true.

But you already know that.

Your Everlovin’ Forever Love,

P. L. O’Bryan

Patrick O’Bryan is a senior in English from Indianola.