I didn't tell Stacey about the crush Thursday, but I told her. I fed her cat while she was away and left her a five-page "note" entitled "What I Did on Your Spring Vacation," in which I chronicled my visits to her apartment, concluding in ironic off-handedness with "just one last thing": I told her I had a "crush on someone at work" and reiterated the self-debate on whether I should tell her about it, finally concluding that I wouldn't tell her. (Cute, huh?)
But I don't feel very much unburdened for having done it. Stacey was to have gotten home yesterday. I more than half-expected her to call me last night. It's hard to believe she wouldn't have, if she got home okay. I hope she doesn't think we can talk about it at work.
^If only I'd been as obsessive a chronicler as I was to become later, I would have a transcript of that "note". But perhaps it would have revealed me to be not quite as cute as I suspected.
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