It happened. I insisted that it wouldn't (all the while knowing I was lying to myself). As I sat across from him in that dimly lit bar - pulse racing, mind reeling, prosecco bubbles tickling my nose - I wanted to reach across the table and pull his blue eyes closer to mine, feel the heat of his breath. Tell him how perfect I'd imagined we could be. * If only we had more time * I drank the ideas of "he" and "we" through wine-stained lips, biting the lower as I pictured my fingers running through his hair. Wondered if he felt the same lust pulling him toward me, fighting to keep focus. Every sentence I spoke felt half-empty, like there were so many things that I wanted to share, but now was not the time and this was not the place. Dammed: my thought stream. Damned: this late crossing of paths in pursuit of dreams. I knew it was going to happen, that kiss. I had anticipated it every time he came near me and I could sense the blood pumping through his veins like a current over my body. And then a rush - that deliciously human sensation - surprise/satisfaction/desire. I'd be hooked from then on, each "what if" replaced by another.
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