She came his direction carrying a sandwich wrapped in the paper of the downstairs deli. She held it, he imagined, as Sophia Loren might: elbow bent, hand up near the shoulder, dainty and useless as a handbag. He could feel his throat constricting as he said hello.
She stopped, and regarded him a moment before speaking. He was sure she only smiled out of necessity. He worried that she would notice him staring at her lips as they parted, smooth and sly, as she pronounced his name.
He wished he could have asked about her lunch. He wished he could make conversation about the project she was working on. He’d read about it in an email. He wished he could find a witty — but not creepy — remark about the outfit she was wearing. However, the scent of her shampoo mingled with his thoughts. He wished he could hear her say the word “wish.”
He grinned, he was certain, with the face she would think belonged to a serial killer or the sire of first cousins, and wished her a good day.
When she returned to her office, she sent a text to her friend: “wish i cld walk down the hall w/o some guy lookin’ at me like a puppy dog.”
Michael Neal Morris has published short stories, poems, and essays in a number of print and online venues. He most recent books are naked andRecital Notes, Volume I. Collections of his work are listed at Smashwords and Amazon. He lives with his family just outside the Dallas area, and teaches at Eastfield College.
This Blue Monk: http://bluemonkwrites.tumblr.com/
Monk Notes: http://mnmwrite.blogspot.com/
Walking It Off: http://mnmwalking.blogspot.com/