Love In The Elevator?

My palm comes back dry. I cross my arms again and continue my Bugatti-Bounce-Shuffle.

There’s a sound of approaching footsteps behind me, not that I’m concerned, after over three years of being a college student, and an extremely awkward one at that, I’ve learned to ignore people for the sake of my stability. I’m just not a people person. So I ignore them and hope that they don’t take me ignoring them as a sign of me being bougie.

Whoever they are (because my eyes are still locked on my figure which has ceased its bounce shuffle) they stop beside me, on my right side and sigh, “C’mon.”

Dude. Dude.

My heart…..implodes.

This guy is so indefinitely pronounced in my right peripheral that I don’t need to guess who he is. He’s none other than my drool worthy crush. Mr. GQ. Mr. Tall Light and Handsome. The guy who had all the ‘hunnies’ eating out the palm of his silent hand that first week of class….and he’s standing beside me. The same guy I don’t speak to at all but have like four of five classes with? The cerebral damage is even greater now.

Hurry…for the love of God hurry.

I can’t function when I’m next to this guy. He’s suave in a silent way, handsome in a I-don’t-have-to-part-my-lips type of way and he’s nice too. I’ve talked to him three times in all and every time he’s been nice and smiled.

He has a great smile. Angels scoop him up whenever he smiles.

Should I say something to him?

My throat is dry and my eyes are locked on the elevator doors. My body is tense and my brain is still leaking.

This guy is handsome, like the kind that you can’t give justice to just by describing and top that off he’s much older than me. He’s twenty-nine going on thirty, but I kid you not he does not look at day over twenty five.

But what does twenty-five look like?

IT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE WHAT I PICTURE THIRTY LOOKING LIKE.

“Slow elevator right?” this is what I say instead of the usual, “Hey what’s up? How are you doing?”

Mr. Fine as can be chuckles, “Man I’ll say. All these elevators are slow as hell.”

“Right?” I offer again and laugh nervously.

Since he’s been here he’s been looking at the elevator too, but in my peripheral (because if I look at him full on I will melt) his body turns towards me and he crosses his long arms with the muscles bulging slightly (because home boy works out) and he stares at me with his mesmerizing hazel eyes. He has drowsy eyes, dopey almost, but it’s like….a lull, they’re soothing and that’s what’s so bad about them. The last time I looked into his eyes I forgot I was doing it and somebody had to snap me back to reality because I’d fallen asleep with my eyes open while looking at his eyes.

I think he’s a vampire.

“How are you doing today little lady?”

I melt. Like totally and completely melt because even though ‘little lady’ is an archaic term used by older (and older-older men) there’s something gentleman like and seductively southern about it.

And guys just shouldn’t do that to po’ lil’ ole me because I can’t handle attention like that. I’m a spaz and I’m proud about it because it makes me different. I’m a lovable spaz with a strange sense of humor and a shy smile and sarcastic come backs but when it comes to guys I’m a complete ditz.