I rested my arms on the window, and looked out at the fogged and stained window. My eyes analyzed his every move, the flicker in his eyes as he made multiple baskets. It was no lie when I said that he was far from suave. But a perfect guy is no fun. I think that is what makes me drawn to him, how imperfect he is. Not particularly handsome or pretty. He is not tall or fashionable. He's normal, and I like that. After reading so many romance stories of “perfect” men I turn my nose up at the thought of being with one of them. I don't want to look at my lover and go “wow” because of his glorious face or body. That is something to f***. Not something to love.

I just stared at him, not smiling or fawning. Just watching him. Letting my face relax as much as it could. And then he looked at me. And I continued to look at him. His eyes brows arched up and his mouth was slightly open.

Cute.

And we still looked at each other. I could feel my eyes wanting to move away like I usually do. Edging me to just glance somewhere other than his eyes. But I couldn't. I was trapped in my own interest. And in his patient brown eyes. I liked that they were brown. Not a unusual or glorious green or blue. But brown, a regular brown. Not milky caramel or deep and seductive.

We continued to look. My heart beat sped, and I could feel myself begin to freak out. I had no thoughts cross me. This moment engulfed every part of me. A simple moment of two people staring at each other for an oddly long time. It was still. So still. If it was not for other people playing basketball around him I would swear this was a painting, or that I had some sort of freezing ability. Unlikely but that would be great.

“Play girl,” his lips mouthed. I could read them but I wasn't sure if he said that exactly.

Then he moved, and my body and mind both realized what was happening. I looked to the door beside me, realizing he would enter there, and ran the other way.

I can't let him get me. I'm too afraid to face the things I have done.

As I hid behind the corner of a wall, the metal door squeaked as it opened and closed. There was no echo of footsteps, so he was peering down the three halls that laid facing the door. One small footstep, a few mumbles, a sigh, and running.

Wrong one.

I exhaled the breath I held.