The Waiting Game

And she sat hoping she’d hear something of him. After the last two days and countless attempts of flirting from both sides at work, all she wanted was for him to send that text “Hi.” Simple as that, it would’ve sufficed, yet nothing came.

The two days leading up to this night of endlessly being stuck in her head went accordingly. Work on Thursday was normal. The room she was working in with him was extra hot because fall had come, and the company turned on the heat in order to keep the room hot enough to dry the paint that was applied to the pieces she worked on. The building was old; it was a factory after all, built one hundred plus years ago, so it was to be expected that it would be cold when the temperature dropped.

And so the morning went on like this. He first came up to her table unexpectedly, which rarely happens normally, immediately she began to feel herself flush. She felt the heat in her cheeks, and he proceeded to tell her how he’d have to play soccer with the other parents against his son and all their sons. Their friendship was odd in general; most of the time, she’d have to walk over to him on their ten-minute breaks to start up conversation, but today she guessed he just had to talk to her directly. He leaned in to half-whisper something in her ear; she barely even understood what he even said. She felt the bead of sweat on the top of her lip start to form, and she became agitated in her chair.

From that moment on, the rest of the day continued with brief interactions; each, her and him would encourage when they could. Any time one of them walked to the bathroom, the other would join. When she’d walked over for a glass of water, she’d wait until he saw her and joined her for a slight conversation that’d sneak in before getting noticed by management.

On lunch, she was talking with a friend walking down the ramp to the lunch room when she looked up and there he was passing her by. She looked into his eyes and smiled, still talking to her friend, when he extended his hand and poked her arm. The electricity that shot through her body almost halted her instantly. He’d never touched her before; he’d never made a move to make contact with her body in any way. Everything up to this point was just harmless flirting or conversing the way friends did.

They’d have many conversations, and she’d try her best always to give a look that said “come fuck me” but never flirted too forward with him. Many other men in the build she could make flirtatious comments with because she was assured that they had no serious interest in her and neither did she with them. With him, it was different; she actually liked him, so she’d play much more coy, never being too forward. She often wondered why with him she’d always be casual when inside she was completely falling apart. She never thought once she gave herself away she always remained nonchalant with the way they conversed. But anytime he removed his sweatshirt and flashed those tatted arms in his cut tee she’d melt, literally melt as the heat filled her body and she’d slink away into her chair wishing she could run away so no one could suspect her interest of him.

But after that touch, she knew having him in her mouth was all she could want; nothing would, nothing could distract her from wanting him. Every second he could, he’d look into her direction, and most every time she’d shared his look and stare back at him, thinking about how hot he looked, funny how one touch can make him her whole world. She’d have to grow some resistance to his power over her; otherwise, she’d be weak forever around his presence.