hymn

He liked the way that she liked the way his eyes liked to watch her eyes scan the pages of her book. When the room had warmed up to just enough for her neck to bead slightly and for her breathing to heighten just enough to be audible by the chair beside her, he would meander by in the hopes that her arm would catch his leg or that they would speak. She asked about his day. He forgot to ask back. But he knew how to make a cappuccino and she liked to get caffeine drunk on the sight of his sensual tongue rubbing against his lips. There was something about his innocent voice that made it seemed like the sounds she could illicit from him when he finally asked her down might almost be inappropriate. It didn't stop her from wanting to, though. She was waiting for the right time of night, with the right music, and the right cup sitting on the right table, and then she would climb on the back of his bicycle and show him what it felt like to feel her.

But it was the wrong time. She's never been too timely.