Final Campaign

My thoughts grew distorted as I listened charismatically to the boy diagonal to me, who mumbled to the blonde sitting beside him. From my angle he flaunted two deep dimples at the precise spot where his lips curled. My heart softened at the endearing sight. His complexion was clean and moisturized, highlighting the dimples even more. It was obvious that he certainly wasn’t petite, but neither was he the opposite. His figure was a strong mass of one consistent shape, and although it lacked definition, I craved the opportunity to be enveloped by his arms, taken deeply into the depth of his chest with wholesome intent. 

As he rose from his seat I entered a state of wanderlust. Wherever he was going was where I wanted to be. He walked past me in a strut followed by an aroma of potent musk that would have been too offensive on anyone else. It smelt tart of unfavorable spices, yet rich and sweet like I had imagined his personality to be. Oddly enough, I appreciated it. Beyond the aroma, I lifted my head subtly, as to disprove my eagerness to catch his gaze. In an intense moment his warm eyes pierced the loneliness that lay in mine. His lashes flicked softly as his stare didn’t deviate. Internally I was overtaken by the need to introduce myself, but something in his eye contact clued me that he had been watching me while in company of the blonde, therefore implying no need for such action. I pondered the idea that he had dedicated himself to appreciating the lines of my face and the shape of my feminine figure, much like I had investigated his own. I, personally did not boast any especially promiscuous figure, but my light streaky hair certainly complimented my appearance as it draped over my boney limbs bringing them to life. The locks were usually strung back with a delicate ribbon of varying colors. This technique bared the small gold hoops that hung from the lobe of my ears. Every so often they caught a flicker of light through the window behind me, mesmerizing the scene of the coffee shop. 

I’m not completely sure how long our eyes mingled, but it wasn’t long enough. In the days following our engagements, I routinely sat at the same table, amongst the same coffee enthusiasts, and diligent procrastinators. It became our spot. It was everything that he was to me: warm, inviting, and valuable. Finding a seat was no easy feat, but the universe always seemed to save me one. I convinced myself that because there was a seat for me, I was justified in my desire to stare and internally gloat knowing he saw my eyes the same way I saw his. Although we’ve yet to exchange a word, I know each freckle that spotted his face, the gentle movements of his hand as he types his papers minutes before their submission time, and the sweet tick he has to remove his earbuds everytime he waves to someone he recognizes. I don’t need him to speak to me and teach me of his goodness, I watch silently with the ability to witness it firsthand. Is it possible to converse with someone without using any verbal accommodation? If so, we were masters at it.