He was beautiful that’s the only way to describe his features; a tennis player body, thick hair that looked like it would take a team to cut, long legs and great arms. You know the kind of arms that say tennis or surfing, not free weights and the gym. He was unconscious of her presence and she stood just outside, half hidden, half visible, turned in such a way that she could stare but turn her gaze elsewhere should he raise his lips towards her. Wait, I meant his eyes.
He was dressed comfortably, casuall,y but not carelessly or sloppy. There was no scent of tobacco or stale alcohol or the opposite extreme, girly freshmess from scented soap. His hair was shiny but not the 20 something shiny, just a healthy shine. His hands were smooth, his nails clean and neatly trimmed. It was obvious he wasn’t a laborer, or a real estate agent. An artist or a writer, I’d guess, from his quiet meditative pose, and from the glimpse of his expression visible through his mane of hair. Not a pretty boy but a man, powerful and confident not boastful and obnoxious.
I walked away from the hallway and into the stacks; afraid I would be, or wouldn’t be, noticed. I glanced his way again at the end of the aisle and was given a different perspective. You know he’s got it if the back of his head sends chills down your spine and makes your knees weak.. Unconsiously, she began moving towards him like a moth to the flame. She wanted to press her lips to the side of his neck, to hug his body from the back, her breasts pressed against him like an oversized wool blanket rolled into a cylinder, a little bit scratchy but pliant and indestructible, all at the same time.
She knew he was aware of her now, a tiny shift in his posture, chin raised just slightly like a dog sensing a bitch in heat. She stopped, frozen, unsure of what to do. He leaned over and put the book in his backpack. To be continued
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