Fear of one thing

I have yet to find a time in life when fear has served me well. As a rule, I'm not scared of much. I'm brave enough to do things that people who know me can only shake their heads at, but there's one thing that sends all my bravery fleeing.

Neil Young is playing on the speakers in the Tea Lounge, and I'm sitting cross-legged against the exposed brick wall, propped up on pillows, laptop sitting (appropriately) on my lap. Not long ago, I took a break from my editing job to buy myself a glass of California pinot noir from the bar.

I curled back up on my pillow against the wall, wine glass in hand, realizing that my focus was gone for the night. Every time a tall shadow came through the doorway, my eyes moved from my monitor to the door. My editing was a hopeless cause. My heart was elsewhere.

A few hours before, my fear had taken over, making me snappy and grouchy. It always happens this way; I become attached to someone, I feel frightened and I push the person away. Why am I so afraid? And why can't I control my fear of love the way I always have my fears of other things?

I've lost my concentration, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I'll see his tall shadow walk through the door. In twenty-five minutes, the tea lounge will close. My wine glass will go empty and alone into the sink for someone to wash and dry, and I'll walk myself the ten blocks to my smoky sublet on the other side of the Slope.

I can't stop asking myself why, when I know better, I still allow myself to become so afraid of love. Maybe it's not too late for me to learn.