How unrestrained can glances be? Does the flutter of an eyelid make the mark? Or does slipping a peek from the corner of my eye qualify?
With a heart failing to keep up with the racing thoughts in my head just at the mention of his name, how am I meant to restrain the wish that can be read through my eyes?
If I were in my giggly teen years, the rose mosaic scattered on my cheeks would be more befitting. But alas, he is not the hunk I once used to dream of, and I am not the young girl I once used to be.
Questions make me feel smaller than I am. They tower above me, and grow still when I am unable to find an answer. Looking up at them piled so high leaves me dizzy with delight, as I anticipate his visit to our family home for dinner tonight.
© The Londoner, February 2009