Page 55 of David

All my hesitant assumptions are dancing samba in my head.

The validation feels sweet.

He paid attention to me.

Or he’s improvising.

But I’ve got something from him––proof of interest.

His assumption is flamboyant and slightly outrageous, but I let it slide.

He’s started to dance with me.

“What makes you say that?”

“You spent some time writing in that coffee shop.”

“I could’ve used my laptop for work.”

“Have you?”

Hmm.

“No.”

A pause ensues.

“What made you think I was writing?”

“You struggled with it.”

Smart and sexy.

Now I’m puzzled.

“Were you watching me?”

“No. You were watching me,” he says, his quiet laugh rolling over my skin like melted honey.

I’m grateful the dimness conceals the burn in my cheeks, not that he needs to study my face.

His intuition, much sharper than mine, tells him things about me every time I take invisible steps in his direction.

How do I know?

His face is a reflection of my feelings.

Every time he notices a change in my demeanor, a shift, a hint, a palpable thought, he hits on me, smooth and tactical like a war machine.

And it works.

My interest in him has been nourished, and so has been his interest in me.Perhaps my strategy, as simplistic as it is, works.

It’s never worked on anyone before.

Trying to ignite someone’s fascination with me has often fallen flat. People wanted what they wanted, and they were quite clear about it.

Most of the time, we ended up with pieces of ruined lives that we tried to escape from as quickly as possible.

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