I can see him in his uniform - his slacks and his button up, a cooler color that matches his undertones. He skips the tie. Though he tries his hardest to focus on the kids, I think he's counting down the seconds until it's nap time. I think he's pleading to any and every god that the kids don't fuss when it's time to sleep. The easier it is, the quicker he can talk to me.

I try to behave, but something about him makes me lose control. I imagine fabric ripping in an impatient flurry. I imagine aftershave and two spritzes of cologne. I imagine the pulse in his neck, quicker, quicker. The way his voice sounds through the phone picks at my resolve, incessant, and before I know it, I've gone mad.

I'm foaming at the mouth for him. That need burrows deep in my gut, a parasite that feeds solely on his attention. I want him beside me, inside me, inside my head - I'm out of my mind.

He's a handful of glitter; when I wash him away, somehow he still lingers around me. In my bed. On my clothes. When I turn my head, I catch glimpses of his color, his presence in every corner and crevasse of my vision.

I want to write about every part of him. I want to fill pages of descriptions, of analogies that roll eyes and elicit groans. The way I feel could fill books, maybe even libraries. And in that exuberance, I find terror. It's nagging. What if I fuck this up? What if my stunning story becomes a serialization of tragedy? What if in the height of this intensity, I recognize the missing floor and fall? That feeling might always be there. It's the fear of knowing that at any moment his hot air may pull from my cold that makes me cherish the whirlwind. I'll funnel my emotions into him.

He makes me write bouquets - all flowery. I'll keep it simple. I like him. A lot.