The death of cool
His eyes are a startlingly vibrant shade of blue, similar to that of the Hawaiian waters I often fantasize about but have yet to see with my own. A smile does not so much appear on his face as it does overtake it, happily electrifying every plane, each affiliated feature. Said planes have a familiar rawboned quality that seems to me to be common amongst Caucasian men of his remarkable stature. (Those, at any rate, who have not yet gone to fat, as nearly inevitably happens.) The overall impression is one of sweet and unassuming beauty, in that slightly goofy, effortless way that only certain open-featured, Midwestern boys can be beautiful.
We will never be anything more than two oppositely-gendered people who know one another in an obligatory, passing sort of sense. A sad formality colors our interactions; my deeply ingrained sense of propriety stifles giggles, squelches potentially audacious feminine gestures of affection.
It is, nonetheless, rather lovely to be reminded of one’s own primal proclivities; to feel, simply stated, like a woman, solely due to the presence of a man who would be shocked to learn of his own casually hypnotic wiles.
Then, coincidentally (if such things exist), I saw him today, for the first time in quite awhile. He smiled that unbelievable, mind-altering smile, and asked how I'd been.
I responded with something witty like, "urm, faaarghle...gaaah."