Rewritten
I walked into the store and there he was. The admiration I longed for stood tall in a fitted v neck shirt and dark denim jeans. Wearing an earpiece and lanyard, he seemed anything but amateur. Every time I see him I get the same butterflies and I start to think that maybe I’m just a silly little girl. “God, I just can’t get over the look of him,” I say under my breath half hoping for him to hear. The sincere smile he shows to customers despite the brevity of their acquaintance, the way his dark skin contrasts the clothes he folds with a diligent intent, everything about him makes it impossible for the smile to leave my face. I catch his eye after a moment and grin wildly at the casual smile he shoots me which has a mix of nonchalance and exclusivity I yearn for from him. When he shoots that smile I am shot down and so grateful for it like a tired soldier at war. He rings out another customer and glances occasionally and I pretend not to notice. He’s probably just sweet talking another girl into buying something else like the new leggings he suggested for me. I tried them on and loved them, if not for the fit for the satisfaction it brought him. I am so in love with him. So enthralled in his skin and his eyes and his smile. That smile could read my thoughts, could see right through the veil I put up to try to maintain composure. I liked to imagine I was the only girl who shopped in that store. That I wasn’t like any of the others who came in looking for a swimsuit and left with a parka as a result of the way he performed. But in a way I was in fact that same girl. Money meant nothing for a smile like his. Eventually he would come up and say “How are you doing today, miss?” but excitement limited my response to “Good, thanks.” Despite that excitement we would exchange a smile and it wouldn’t be long before I found myself grabbing anything close as he drew near to solicit his opinion. I would coyly say, “Would these two look good together?” and bashfully bat my eyelashes and he’d simply respond, “On you? Yes,” and smile softly then wink. Such a direct compliment was risky and did not follow protocol but he’d do it for me. We’d part ways as I blushed and he would continue on his way like with any other girl he flirted with at work. He had a sharp wit and he was a smooth talker, but he could be mine. I would try on something with no intention to buy so that I might linger around the store hoping for even a smidgen of his attention. He would come into the fitting room and address the flirtatious young girls and their eager mothers but soon we’d be alone. I’d hear a soft knock at my door and see the dark skin of his hand reach over and as I slowly opened it he would barge in with a smile too big for his face and affectionate arms that wrapped around me. I would pretend as if I was offended and speak in victorian manner as if I was quite too tasteful a lady to be exposed so indecently, but he’d just giggle and kiss me all over and tell me he liked my bra. And soon, I was giggling too. He’d hush me and run back out to the stage to reprise his role and I’d stand smiling as I slowly redressed. For an eternity I could smile and think about him, more accurately him and I and how happy we could make one another. And then I’d leave the store with no haste, waiting only for that last glance we might share. And when we had the moment my heart would fly from my chest and my dimples would hollow out the cheeks they reside on. He’d give his last smile and I’d blow him a provocative little kiss that would always intrigue him. Then I’d be on my way still swooning with a little more skip in my step. It’d happen every time I returned, and every time I feel that same anticipation. “To be so lucky would be amazing,” I thought, but then again, I am lucky. I am madly in love with him. And he is my boyfriend.
