Yes, I'm a slacker

IN lieu of my new guilty pleasure song (if you don't already know I won't tell you) this will be about my favorite subject

He comes in, just like every tuesday. Cute in the way that a mutt is. Most woman would pass him by but for some reason my chest tightens. I get nervous and try not to stare. Counting the times he looks at me and wondering if it's more then last time. Wondering if he wonders. His hair is dirty and his eyes a simple brown but still my heart leaps as if suicidal when he glances. The looks are innocent enough, but maybe he's hiding too. I feel silly and young like in grade school. My maturity has no place in these moments. I don't fantasize when he leaves, I don't yearn for his grimy hands. When he is present though, I am fluttery inside. I sometimes wonder what I would say if he ever broached the subject. Would I have the presence of mind to refuse or would I be vague, play games with the small amount of power it lends? I wonder if this maelstrom spills into his psyche just a little, if my intoxication gives him some kind of contact high. Then strikes the self esteem, by the time he leaves my lust feels more like pleading. He leaves having been cordial, so of course devastation hangs around for a few minutes. Then it's over, and I don't even think about it until the following tuesday. Perhaps that is true maturity?