Any given day I know there’s a chance you’ll be there, standing beneath that tree, waiting for me. Just so I can shyly glance at you, and you back at me. We do this often. I’m not sure what your story is, but I imagine that you come from an honest family. You have an honest smile. Presumably inherited to you from your dad. Kindest hearted man to ever grace the earth.

But your eyes, those eyes, they came from your mom, she is known by her friends as demure and well kempt. All you inherited from her were the eyes.

I imagine that you’re shy and definitely not married (because what fun would that be?). You like your coffee black, eggs scrambled. You like to eat dinner late, rarely ever eat lunch. When we lock eyes, I imagine that you walk up to me and ask me the basic boring obligatory questions, but lead to the side of you that is desirable and witty. Something I find worth exploring. The idea is enticing.

Then suddenly my hand is on your face, my thumb tracing your lips. Your eyes are closed, breath is short. As you embrace me and kiss everything within reach, I count the freckles on your nose. There are 12, exactly.

My new favorite number.

I didn’t see you today, physically, but I enjoyed your presence.

Photo by Javier Penas

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