The woman and the washboard

The man with the harmonica is perched as a symbol of all the good and bad and beautiful in all of my relationships. As his hand moves up and down clickity clackiting my thoughts out on a worn out washboard, glasses perched atop his bridge, dirty jean hat countering the many rumors and projections of his supposed "professorship" or "research position". No one gets an interview, no one gets a word, but we all have forged quite the relationship with this man, thinking, egotistically, that it is only ours. I watch as students morph into momentary cartoons as their feet lift a little higher, arms swing a little harder, smiles stretch a little wider for that 30 by 30 foot square of university pavement. I let my delusion get the best of me, thinking that he values me as much as I him. I dance, you see, every time, without fail, and he nods, and his eyes smile (mouth still busy harmonicing of course) and we prolong our moment as best we can, me to the beat of my shoulder swings and bouncing hair, him to the humming and strumming, complementing each others' art. I think, "yes, now. this is the time. this is the time when i should finally stop, and talk, and break the routine we've established, push it further, find out something new." But my feet have shuffled and sidestepped me on, and suddenly, out of the direct line of his magical influence, it seems so silly, so farfetched, so i keep on walking. I could talk, you see, clarify his role, tell him i like it, point at his importance. But such risk running is not actually part of the confidence i exude. What ifs come shooting to the surface - what if he doesnt in fact notice that im the one dancing for and because of him, that smile just the reaction of a self-involved man? what if he has many other boppers, millions of boppers, counting me as just another number? what if he's not the man behind the music that i expect him to be? and mostly, what if it's in the not talking that everything exciting and mysterious lies? There are no expectations, not even projections, that come to mind. Just speculation based on past smiles and head nods, the extended relationship, the fact that we built it all on top of a teetering jenga set, and one wrong pull may bring it all crashing down. Such is the game. Tense and fun and full of potential for disaster, which is, in the end, the final expectation. I still can't get myself to stop, change routes, or walk straight on through. Still, i'm increasingly disappointed on the many a days that he's not there. Such is the game.