Schrödinger's Courtship

There's a moment that happens-- subtle and special and somehow magical in a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of way-- the moment when you both know, before even a word is spoken about it, what you both want.

When he knows that she knows that he knows that she knows.

At that moment, everything changes. Every interaction, no matter how subtle, is weighed with a gravity of intention. Every word, no matter how minute-- every glance, regardless how fleeting-- is laden with meaning. Innuendo dripping from every gesture.

You notice it. She notices it. But, for now— (for how long?)— it remains in stasis. Unspoken. In thought only. 

"Schrödinger's courtship."

A kind of dance plays out as you both not-so-secretly maneuver to put intention into action.

This is "the moment." It's delicate— and can even disappear if one or both participants lose interest before the moment is ever acknowledged out loud. In fact, speaking it turns "the moment" into something else— not better, not worse— but something more commonly associated with whatever you call it when a man and a woman get together.

But for now— for a brief moment in time— it remains a "moment," mysterious, unuttered, and primal; going back in our DNA before even language formed around it. A knotted thrill of anticipation that what you seek may happen because you both want it to.

"Oh what a joy to be comprehended," 

There may even be an inner-elation around the unspokenness of your mutual pursuit. But be warned— the longer it takes to evolve beyond "the moment" into whatever you call it when a man and a woman get together, the more tenuous the thread of the "moment" is stretched thin.

But new depths of desire can be discovered through that thin, stretched line of unuttered instinct. 

To delay is to deny. To deny is to deprive. Deprived long enough and the result could become depraved. 

To postpone now, when knowing is half the battle, can be agony. Yet agony of anticipation adds to the appetite.

Pressure, pleasure. Pressing, pleading postponement. Until an unannounced impending implosion.

How long can one wait? Once both know, how long can either endure before curiosity provokes a desperate action, a rushed question, a nervous admission.

Tom Petty said Waiting is the Hardest Part, but waiting is also what makes 'doing' so great. 

With bated breath.

From personal experience, I know one can wait forever, but two seldom do. We all know what happens when a kettle boils over. Sometimes rising steam evaporating from water depletes the wellspring, and suddenly, without realizing it— "the moment," such as it was— has passed. 

That moment that happened— and is gone. The moment when each of you knew what the other was thinking, suddenly now you don't know. It may be a thrill, but it still must precede still another moment that turns it, like a moth from a cocoon, from something inactive into action.

Either Schrodinger's courtship lives— or it dies. 

They say strike when the iron is hot. You can also strike in order to make the iron hot. But eventually, everything is buried under the dark soil of time.

Even a moment as magic as this can be snuffed out. The best thing (that never happened).

Eventually, you may even have a little box full of a collection of moments you've had. This one. That one. All together where you keep them, tucked away, where you refrain from speaking them into existence to this very day.

Sometimes I wonder if, in the end, the unspoken moments of missed opportunities will mean more than the things I did and said.

What would it mean if that ends up being true?