Infatuation
I was 17 the first time I saw him. Like a vision sent to tempt my teenage hormones, he mowed the lawn across the street, clad in only blue work pants and steel-toed boots, his long blonde hair pulled back from his face. Clearly not a high school boy. I was a goner.
Throughout the summer, I could watch him discreetly from the front room, carefully peeking through a crack in the sheer curtains. Not that I did. OK, let's be honest, I was infatuated and dreamed of finding out who he was. I knew he worked with me, but it was a big place.
At last, I spotted him at work. Now, I needed to know his name. I managed to speak to one of his coworkers and got his name, followed by a phone number. That was the easy part.
I was shaking when I picked up the phone to call him. Surely, he wouldn't know who I was, but I was determined. When he answered, I tried to contain the tremble in my voice as I explained who I was. He knew me! Time to go in for the kill. I asked him to the Homecoming Dance and he said yes.
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