The Alpha

Published October 2, 2014 by M. Natalia Arocho

The Alpha is what I call him. Looking at him, being around him one could tell that everything about him is pure masculinity. The way he walks. His manner of speaking. How he towers over everyone (discount the fact that the is well over six feet) surveying all in his domain. He claims what is his, dismisses what he has no use for. The Alpha that keeps his pack in line.

A younger me from a far, having yet to be exposed to his world, watched him in admiration and thinking him to be a great leader. A man who is knowledgeable, is logical and fair in his decisions, charming, friendly, who keeps to himself but can socialize like the best of the extroverts. The younger me had a great liking to him, a regular high school crush.

The older me now looks at the once younger, naïve me and sighs. The older me knows better, sees more clearly. The alpha inside me is growling at being seen as a child, immature, her ego is feeling slighted at the fact that she is not being recognized. She is not a minor character, a beta, a supporting role, and she will not acknowledge the fact that she is being seen as such.

Living on a small campus, having such a small, interloping circle of friends and having the same taste in events and places, there was no way to avoid being in his constant vicinity. No way to avoid the preening that my ego goes through on site, the way my head goes up a notch higher, my shoulders find themselves elevated and I am more aware of my surroundings and the signals I give out. Aloft. Approach with caution. You would be only so lucky to touch. Beware, my bit is just as bad as my bark.

There is no helping it. I’m a string pulled taught on bow, waiting for the release. For him to talk to me. For him to not talk to me. For him to look my way, for him to look away. I’m just ready to let my arrow fly and yet it goes no where as he moves along. An intruding shooting star that penetrates into my orbit, is visible in my atmosphere constantly to only leave as quickly as he appeared.

And when he does leave, my string relaxes, the arrow is away but I feel the slight twinge, the continuous regret of a missed shot.


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