Cafe Love

I felt like my heart was on fire whenever I saw her. Like a tentacle of hot flame wrapped around the ventricles and tried to choke the life out of me but not in a bad way, if you can imagine such a thing being a pleasant experience.

It was just love. OK, maybe not love, but definitely not lust. What's in the middle? Maybe there hasn't been a word created for it yet. Maybe some day some great philosopher far smarter than I will coin a term for what this exact feeling is and then everyone will be able to say "Oh, that. Well, of course I know that feeling" as if they actually did know, but really didn't.

I felt drunk and floaty, like at any moment I would both say something completely stupid to her about corduroy and float into the stratosphere like a child's balloon in perfect synchronization.

"Best not chance it," I comforted myself, as if there was actually a universe where I could've mustered up the courage to approach her.

Alas, I stood there the fool, gazing upon perfection as she ordered her coffee.