Another Day

I sit and linger, I gaze, I stall, I drool, and all the while I creep him out, no doubt, because he is dashingly beautiful with his radiant glow about him as he swiftly glides from table to table with the elegance of a swan, no, a gazelle, wiping down the unworthy crumbs of which I categorize myself with entirely. I swoon, and yet, I wish for nothing more than sudden glance in my direction. I sip my coffee and swoon. He is James Carlisle.
I know, I know, how I could be such a fool to think of him in a way that puffs up the station to which I belong, making me seemingly worthy of just a word or two along with a passing expression of which I know I neither deserve nor have the slightest chance in receiving.
He flings and rests his ill-colored dishtowel on his broad, masculine left shoulder and I close my eyes and wish to be that towel. To be the thing that touches the chocolate brown, skin tight t-shirt that covers his sun-kissed body and brings out the other shades of cinnamon and mocha that jump off of his physique: his dark, brooding eyebrows and his shiny, cocoa curls that he pushes cutely away from his earthy eyes.
He turns away from his present table and looks passively in my direction. I slouch impossibly lower in my chair as I sip my coffee once more, hunching behind Jane Eyre in a sad attempt to keep my yearning eyes on him while seeming less obvious, though I know that is not at all possible.
What is this? Is this happening? Is he really making his way in my direction, fingering the towel in his hands as I imagine in my mind if my hand were that towel? This is it! This is my chance to maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe say a word to him! Maybe I could ask him to join me for coffee? No, no. I look down at my warm cappuccino and realize that that will not do at all.
I stare the words on the pages of my Jane Eyre and think indulgently of what to say. My palms sweat and my forehead becomes moist with perspiration while my head begins to ache with the much intensive pondering process.
I look up. What is happening? Why do I see his god-given backside trailing away with his dishtowel in hand? I look down again, at my lonely and empty table, as it sits there, mocking me. I see that it is now crumb-less, the ring-like smudge on the table that was formed by my Styrofoam cup had disappeared. I look at him as he walks away. I swoon silently and hope for another day.





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