No point worrying about something I can't predict. Focus on the present. Right, sip of coffee. Try not to spill. Good, normal behaviour for a café. Is a café the right place to do this? Is anywhere the right place to do this? Stop panicking. Distract yourself. Peoplewatch. Old man in the corner reading. Or pretending to read. Hasn't turned a page since I got here.

And the laughing, kissing talking couple to my left. They look so happy. In love. I wonder how they got together. Whether he was this nervous when he said how he felt about her. But then he probably wasn't declaring his sexuality too. Coming out for the first time.

But then, am I being sexist? Maybe she made the first move. A sexist lesbian, that's what I am.

Lesbian. Should I use that word? "I'm lesbian." Too blunt. "I think I might be a lesbian." Too hesitant. Besides, I know I am. Maybe I should just plunge in with the ultimate phrase of our culture, our lives--"I love you." But what if she doesn't understand? Or chooses not to understand. I love you too, as a friend. Or the eternally damning "as a sister."

Should I tell her sexuality before my love? Is that the coward's way out? To see her reaction before risking my heart. I cannot do this. I have to. I refuse to spend my life hiding who I am. I don't want to tell her. But I have to. God, life was easier before puberty hit.

I cannot let myself back out of this. She must not walk away from here without knowing how I feel. When I think of the times when I almost kissed her, almost confessed. Confessed? Strange way to think of it. Maybe I subconsciously consider my love for her as a sin.

Oh God, where is she? Maybe she won't come. Buy me some time. More time to wait and worry and wonder. More time for her to live in blissful ignorance. But is it blissful? Or is she like me, desperately wanting to know, to tell, to share? Or, worst case scenario, lesbian and not wanting me. Rejection not for my sex but for my self. Hell. Where I would be if she never speaks to me again. If I could never see her again.

I'm just being an idiot. I know her; she'll be fine. She'll consider my feelings. She's wonderful like that. A saint, an angel. Ah the irony, I've fallen in love with an angel. Angels are meant to be chaste and pure. And presumably heterosexual. Damn religion.

Thinking about it, she's too beautiful to be an angel. Conjures up too many impure thoughts. With her incandescent blue eyes and rose petal lips. And perfect, perfect breasts. No, I mustn't let myself drift into an erotic daydream. Focus on the present. On my coffee. Must be sensible. And breathe.

Fuck, she's here.