I just saw you walk past my table. Walking so confidently, arms swinging at your sides, like you were on a formal parade at some old school military academy. Shoulders back, chest out, arms going straight up and down with extreme gusto. Do you even know you do this? Perhaps you’ve been swinging your arms since you were a cute toddler, making giant, powerful strides up and down the family garden path, and nobody has ever mentioned it? I find it genuinely adorable. At that moment, I think I’ve fallen for you hard.
And now you walked past me again. Of course, the resort restrooms are around the corner from my secret spot at the bar. They are the most efficient distance from your sun lounger. Maybe you do have military precision in your ancestry? Or perhaps you are on active duty, enjoying some much-needed R & R time in Puerto Rico?
My heart skipped a beat for the second time today.
But I can’t see where you went, and it would be slightly creepy of me to seek you out, but I strain my neck, looking around to see if I can catch a further glimpse of you. But you are out of sight, positioned somewhere further along the poolside, out my view.
I feel the heady flood of adrenaline coursing through my veins, that rush of excitement at feeling my heart beat ever so slightly faster.
But like you somehow felt my longing for you, I see you change sunloungers, moving to the shady side of the pool, out of the direct midday sun. Draping your towel over the green and white cushions, reorganizing your laptop, water bottle, and voluminous shoulder bag. Now I can stare at you from afar without feeling like I am some creepy resort stalker.
Truth be told, I know precisely why I instantly fell for you. I have a type, like all of us, if we are honest with ourselves. And it was set hard and fast in my psyche during my childhood. That early puberty crush on a very narrow type of woman, specifically the older unavailable one, which you’ve tried to fulfill in your adult years over and over again ever since: Tall, blonde, and beautiful.
You hit all three succinctly. The added bonus is that you have the most fabulous breasts. Almost unnaturally too large for your frame. Perhaps this is why your back is so ramrodded straight—years and years of supporting those assets.
Sigh. I want you. Badly.
But what to do? I can’t just walk up to you and start talking. That breaches some sort of resort etiquette, and besides, I don’t think I actually have the confidence to do that. Talking to your crush, regardless of how old you are, is intimidating.
But the universe responds to my dilemma in the most subtle of ways.
I’m obviously entrenched in my favorite secret spot behind the main bar, taking up the whole of a luxurious patio couch, my single entity with four clearly empty seats beside me. Nobody minds me there, as there are plenty of other places to sit. By day number three, the staff is used to my presence and swing by at appropriate intervals to bring me more alcohol. Building complication Excel spreadsheets is a thirsty business.
I scream Geek. There is no mistaking it. But I rock my Chuck Taylor All-Star’s and a Dr. Who teeshirt, so I’m not a total fucking loser.
Everyone around me is fully immersed in vacation mode; that much is clear. Phones are being used for Instagram stories and Facebook posts, but little else. And I’m sitting with a small array of technology in front of me; working. So, of course, she would narrow her focus on me and realize I would have a spare Lightning cable in my Timbuk2 messenger bag.
Doh. Of course.
I managed to say something cute, and she laughed. She actually laughed, from the bottom of her ribcage, a profoundly genuine laugh.
With the ice utterly broken into tiny invisible shards, she then smiled at me.
“Do you mind if I sit for a while? I need a break from building obscure My-Ess-Que-Ell database queries,” she said.
This is like the ultimate in geek flirtation.
Fuck me. We were going to have awesome kids together.
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