Dear Chrishtine,

I haven’t married.

I need to see truth in a woman’s eyes.

My flaw is I’m the pampering type. Sharks devour my kind. Heartless women flog the hearts of my ilk and leave them by the wayside—a form of punishment for my holding on to chivalry in a modern world that couldn’t give a damn.

I don’t let on—openly—my generous romanticism. I haven’t put a face to my pampering proclivity. A reluctance, it is, to reveal a fiercely hidden vulnerability to the wrong beautiful woman. There’s absolutely nothing wrong about your beauty, Chrishtine. It’s nothing short of majestic, your aura, your very essence.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the visual you, woman, the social-media scent of you. I’m holistically captivated by the presence of you, the emotional nearness of you.

But as my luck would have it, you’re spoken for. A cruel romantic irony. And summer is about to leave us without so much as a formal goodbye.

The ones who intrigue me are invariably betrothed. Knotted to a commitment not always of her choosing, but a vow taken nonetheless. The ones whom I intrigue are usually taken. Taken by time, circumstance, predicament. Taken by youth—an unspoken fear that the romantic one would possibly not arrive sometime in the distant future.

I understand.

But summer doesn’t care. It’s about to leave us both.

It’ll simply leave us with the thought of one another. And perhaps that’s enough. To ask for more is beyond the pale. I have no right.

But I can pamper you from afar. Left to my own devices, I can pamper you from a distance. And I know, I just know, you can feel my gifts. From afar.

I just want to release these pampering wishes . . .

. . . before we lose summer.

I’m pampering you, Chrishtine, this Friday. From afar.

Ain’t nothing you can do about it.

My thoughts are you,
Rg2

______

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Pamper the woman . . . before summer’s lost. -Rg2

© 2017 Pamper-Her-Friday