What she really liked about him was his smile. The way one corner of his mouth would turn upwards when he found something or someone endearing. But what really got her was when they parted, when he walked away looking back over his shoulder. When his eyes were seeingher. It left the door open for another meeting and she would go back. Every time.
She remembered everything he told her about himself. Every detail was another piece of the jigsaw. She would go home and savour every encounter; trying to recount verbatim conversations they’d had in her diary. The way he said a certain phrase, how he made her laugh, how his eyes sometimes drifted down to her waist. How she’d have to drive her thoughts away from kissing him. But she wasn’t obsessed.
She could go days without speaking to him, a sort of sobriety. Then, when they did talk again, all walls of protection for her feelings for him crumbled pitifully as she studied a face she considered perfect. She’d know when he’d had his haircut, the new glasses that were similar to his previous pair, a change to his single earring. She would kiss him if they weren’t at work. She would kiss him if she knew for sure he liked her back.
She would kiss him if he didn’t have a girlfriend. She would kiss him if he had a girlfriend.
Her mind would often drift to their first date. She had it all planned out. They would go back to his place where they would chat mindlessly over food and overpriced wine and hold each other until the small hours. But instead she tells witty jokes, smiles at him with every opportunity, asks about his children. Never asks about his girlfriend. She knows where he lives and what time he leaves work. She would never follow him all the way home. She would never go through his desk and find his spare house key. She would never get her own key cut.