Cyrano Until the Music Started

I had five girls I loved.

Not in a loud way. Not in a movie way, but ... in the way a boy loves when he has history with you. When you grew up together. When you have shared hallways, shared laughter, shared the same small-town seasons. When your face is tied to whole chapters of his life.

I crushed on three. I loved two in a way that never really stopped.

I held them. Danced with them. Held them close. Like thousands of writers before me, I can only say I kissed them passionately a thousand times.

In my dreams.

At fifteen, I loved knowing I was a modern day Cyrano de Bergerac.

Not the tragedy. The swagger.

Words gave me swagger.

A folded sheet of paper could do what my shoulders could not. A short poem could turn a regular day into a private event. I could make a girl’s eyes go soft. I could make a guy look like a hero when he handed her something I wrote.

I hustled it, too.

Ten dollars for a short poem. Fifteen for longer ones. Business was good.

Then swagger had to be traded for dance moves.

And I went in reverse. Fast.

Slow dancing, I was fine. Slow dancing is a system. There are rules. There’s timing. There’s geography. You place your hands where they’re supposed to go, you pull her close, you move like you’ve done it before, even if you haven’t. I was all about it.

But anything up tempo?

Anything that required actual rhythm?

I was deadly awkward.

A man can win fights and still lose to a beat.

A man can write honey on paper and still look like a newborn giraffe the second the music speeds up.

That was me.

Cyrano in the hallways.

A panic attack on the dance floor.

And I had proof.

One night, I danced with a foreign exchange student.

Danish.

The kind of gorgeous that ties a boy’s tongue in knots while simultaneously causing heart flutter, sweat beads, and butterflies.

She knew it, too.

The worst part for a boy like me was that she liked me. A lot.

How did I know?

She told me.

Right there. Clean. Direct. Like a Scandinavian weather report.

I should have played it cool.

I should have smiled, and led like I had rhythm in my blood.

Instead, every system inside me went into overdrive.

You know what happens to a guy who is already awkward, then gets upgraded to terrified, while dancing with a girl who is hot, smart, and fully aware she has him in her palm?

Nothing.

No rescue miracle.

No hidden talent rises from the earth.

No secret Harrison Ford switch flips on.

All that happens is ... the awkward becomes historic.

I started moving like a seagull getting blown around by the wind.

The kind that looks like it’s fighting invisible weather.

I cannot tell you exactly how long we stayed out there.

Five minutes, maybe seven.

Long enough to know I was cooked.

Long enough to know she would remember it forever.

Long enough to know I would, too.

Then it ended, the way those moments end.

A smile. A polite exit. A wish to simply be absorbed by the crowd.

And me standing there with my heart still kicking like it wanted a rematch.

That is what cracks me up now.

I had words.

I had swagger.

I had romance in my pocket.

I could write a girl into a dream.

But ask me to dance fast with a Danish beauty who liked me in return?

I turned into a short-circuit; a Max Headroom tape on a loop.

The funny part is, I can still feel it.

My heart skips even now, just thinking of her.

Not because I missed my chance.

Because I remember exactly who I was.

A boy trying to become a man with poetry, courage, and two left feet.

And that, right there, is hard, East Bay truth.

Special Thank You to my Dad, Mr. Ted Scott, who lent me his talent. One word makes a difference.

I love you, Pop.

April 4, 2026

Time Stamped: 18:16