Blushing, Butterflies, and Michael Buble

Today was one of those rare days I was actually in the mood to talk on the phone. I am a notorious screener, ruthless enough to screen even my own mother. I could lie and say that the writer in me prefers the written word to communicate, but really, texting serves my ADD better. I am free to continue what I was doing when you contacted me (or exit the conversation) as I see fit. But for whatever reason I had the strongest urge to just have a conversation with someone.

I called a few other people, avoiding the one person I hoped more than anything would be the one I actually wound up talking to.
And when I finally got tired of pretending to myself that I wanted to talk to anyone but him, I called.

As soon as B answered, my entire face lit up in a smile.

I spent most of the day talking to him about absolutely nothing and everything at once. Talking to him, laughing with him, flirting and smiling, lying back on the smooth baritone of his voice consumed most of my day. He’s so damn charming, in a nonoppressive way, flirtatious in a way that isn’t offensive, and just all around sweet. And he takes his time.

And that’s what I’m in need of right now. To be handled with kid gloves.

He was on the road driving to Albany from Atlanta (about two hours south) and each time the poor service disconnected us, I waited for him to call me back, just so I could hear his ringtone.

I’ve never felt like such a loser in my life.
For some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, he makes me smile. He makes electricity race up my spine, but makes my heart be quiet. There’s never one particular thing he does or says and I never quite realize I’m smiling so hard until my face gets sore. It is kind of as I’ve always wanted something to be; like Sunday, easy, comforting, warm.

I like that.
I like him.

Posted in B