Resolution

There were books under the seat I sat in at church on Sunday, but I failed to notice.  It was somebody's meager attempt to save the seat, but I failed to notice.

I took notice when, at the end of the meeting, Patrick pointed to them at my feet and claimed them as his own.  It was a perfectly benign start to breaking the ice formed on Friday night.  We joked about the chances of my overlooking his reserved chair.  Serendipity.  Fate has a funny way of arranging accidental encounters.  He invited me to do something with him later that evening, I accepted and all awkwardness was mostly forgot.

Before I went with him that night, my roommate gave me the first of what would become a regular pep-talk.  It was an insistent encouragement to tell the truth about who my "missionary friend" actually was.  She was right, of course.  The request Friday to hold my hand, was a pretty good indication that Patrick wasn't in it for friendship alone.  If I was going to continue to spend time with him, I needed to tell him why I was so uncomfortable holding hands.  

I had every intention to be honest, too.  Especially after her well-crafted persuasion.  On my way down the street to his apartment, or when I waited in mine for his arrival, I would rehearse in my mind the conversation.  It always seemed so easy, the words were quite simple, but I came to realize that it was broaching the subject that proved difficult.  The opportunity to say, "I have a boyfriend"  or "we planned to get married" just never presented itself and frankly, the more time I spent with Patrick, the less I hoped for the opportunity.

I feared that telling him would be the same as ending the relationship and even though we didn't have a name for what was going on between us, I really liked it.  We started spending as many moments together as we could muster and graciously, he never asked to hold my hand again.