I arrived 11 minutes unfashionably late. He was punctual. My hair? A curly mess. Wearing blue suede pumps and already out of breath from the day’s itinerary, I realized that the sight of him winded me. He gazed up at me as if I were something to eat, while simultaneously smiling innocently.

Poised as ever, I pretended not to notice. My mind raced. “What are you thinking? You’re here for business.” Poker face still intact, I graciously thanked the waitress for the lemons she placed near my water. “Salad with shrimp, please,” I requested, still collecting myself. Eye contact — it told me everything. He was freckled to perfection. A godly vernacular spoken through thick pink blessings.

“I have something for you,” he whispered. Like an enchanter, he placed the exact book I wanted to read in front of me. Attentive. I rarely meet anyone as crafty as I am, I thought. In that moment, I envied the Chanel brooch on his lapel, pinned to his right side — where I ought to be.

Fixated on his fraudulent coyness, I could see he wanted me. I bypassed the hidden agenda that was now quietly placed above what dreams are made of. It was as clear as day. Blatant as the passionate fuck that flashed through my mind. Mentally engaged, I kept it all inside. The vault! My distinguished asset. I’d only make a mess of our minds.

About The Author

Bianca Alysse is an incurable music junkie, who lives for dance, art, and urban culture. She has worked alongside some of the most ingenious entertainment moguls. Her ink covered hands grabbed her BA in Journalism and ran to New York City.

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