He sits with his back to me, two tables ahead, the table between us unoccupied. I peer out from behind the computer screen to sneak peeks, sometimes. Neat, square, muscular back, broad shoulders noticeable through the loose linen shirts.
Crew-cut, like naval officers (you who are female will know what this Means). When he suddenly swivels around in his chair, his eyes are sparkling. Answers questions with energy but not fervour, precise but not painstaking; walks over to the dark wooden shelves and selects a book effortlessly- his book, his shelf, and he knows them- peels it open to the line that clinches it. Suggests casually that I read it- it’s a good book. [I do, and it is.]
He’s short and fair-skinned and straight-nosed. Aryan-looking though short, but if that’s a judgment in your head then there's a problem. We discuss issues over lunch- Issues, yes, and he’s an Issue-er, but without the sanctimonious air- and discuss spicy chicken curry-which he's made, and we're eating- and the work of genius that is the iMac.
Is it love?
Nope. But it’s kickass-ness.
I'm a lucky girl.
I apologise- this is more like a diary-entry than a blogpost.
ReplyDeleteBut you're still a lucky girl.
ReplyDelete