I fall in love constantly.
It’s a creative flaw, I think, that comes along with writing for a living. And as much as my slippery heart makes dating a bottomless hell-pit, walking through my day-to-day life with rose-colored glasses can be a real joy.
I used to live in a part of the Bay that required an hour-plus on public transit to simply leave — which meant I spent a lot of time writing love letters in my head to my fellow commuters. I even wrote a few of them down. These days, I’m lucky enough to have landed a little closer to the heart of things, and I’ve ditched my commute entirely.
But that doesn’t stop the letter writing. And trust me — it’s embarrassing to admit some of these fleeting crushes. But because we all get a good laugh at cringe-worthy missed connections, here are a few notes I’ve written in my head (and sometimes screamed at strangers) while walking around Lake Merritt.
Your Dog Caught My Attention—You Held It
Look, I’m not proud of the way I squealed at your bulldog. I understand that their construction makes for a gruff and imposing figure, simultaneously compact and Romanesque. But all those squishy rolls cascading down a face with sad eyes set back behind a snaggled mouth—I JUST WANNA SQUEEZE IT. I didn’t. I refrained. I’m an adult.
But I have to level with you: I squealed at your dog, but I wanted to howl at you.
Your baseball cap was pushed up off your downturned face, and your phone was in your hands, your attention being demanded by whatever crucial information sprawled across the small screen. You never looked up, slowed your pace or even reacted to my “OH MY GOD, THAT FACE!” shrieked at an inhuman frequency. Your inability to tear yourself from your phone while in a public space minding a living creature means you’re probably one of those dudes Blindspotting ripped on.
But you’ve got a cute-ass dog, which means I’m dead-ass in love.
You Literally Ran Away from Me
We passed each other going in opposite directions on the Lakeshore side. Our connection was fleeting, but magic and surreal in the twilight. You were sweating and panting, headphones cranked so loud everyone in a 10-foot radius could also hear Kendrick. I was cramming an overflowing spoonful of froyo into my mouth, leisurely strolling home to watch Netflix with my dog. We were of two worlds, but when you glanced at me as you passed, we became that perfect slice in the middle of the Venn diagram — we both have eyes and feet that work. It’s meant to be.
You never slowed your pace, sprinting on toward jogging paths unknown. But that’s all right — I love a man who’ll make me work for it.
I’m Not Flexible Enough for You
Yoga isn’t usually my thing and, honestly, when it comes to a romantic entanglement, I try to avoid people who practice it avidly. I can’t fake liking crystals or smoothies enough to keep up.
But I passed by while you were stretching your arms up to the sky, opening your heart and soul to the afternoon sunlight—your eyes closed, half a smile on your face—and I thought, “Well, damn, all right.” I don’t know that I’d ever be able to keep up with your balancing prowess, but maybe it’d be good to learn how to breathe for just a few moments. You could teach me to chill out, and I could teach you about nacho cheese. The best relationships are the ones that challenge both parties, right?
Then I think about headstands and wonder if I could really hack it with you after all.
You Gave Me an Identity Crisis
I need you to know the extent to which I argued with myself about not crawling between the two of you on your picnic blanket.
You were sharing a bottle of wine on the kind of warm Sunday that makes everyone in Oakland lazy by proxy. You chatted, laughing loudly between wide gestures and refilling your glasses. Your shoulders and knees bumped together in that gentle way that develops between people confidently in love. Usually, I see couples by the lake and wonder how or why I’d emulate what they’re doing for myself.
But something about the warmth you shared made me want to plunk down smack in the middle. Maybe you’d adopt me, maybe I’d just visit for a moment, maybe all the rules I set for myself don’t count anymore. I’m no longer sure what to do with this note.
So, in short, you two make a lovely couple, and thank you for my fresh identity crisis.
You’re Like the Trash Dog of My Heart
I’ve heard rumors of you — small, delicate hands; bright eyes; striking snow-colored hair that flows in the breeze off the water. You’re elusive, only seen when you want to be, and ever the subject of long conversations after your appearance. You even made the news a few times.
And while I’ve never seen you, I subsist on the stories surrounding you. I imagine our own fateful meeting and how I, too, will then have a role to play in your legacy, a moment to say, “Oh yeah, same,” around the table at the back of the bar.
But recently those rumors have shifted to something more troubling. I heard you’ve passed, moved on to the great city lake in the sky. I heard you’ve left behind your family, and that people still see your striking progeny from time to time, unmistakable in your shared genetic material.
Maybe I shouldn’t mourn a raccoon. But your albinism (or leucism, depending on whom you ask) makes you a unicorn-esque character in the community here, and the missed chance to spot you myself makes my heart ache exactly like a love song.
