ELVIS
I felt like a teenager trying to find the right words.
Her eyes were doing things to me, that particular shade of hazel, making it genuinely difficult to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time.
I kept finding things on the table to look at: my glass, watch, and the grain of the wood.
Here I was, bargaining with my own employee about going to the cinema. The absurdity of it all dawned on me.
Last night had been difficult.
I'd rolled from one side of the bed to the other for hours, unable to sleep.
My mind kept going back to her, walking away in those heels, in the rain, hair soaked and flat against her neck, not once looking back.
I'd stood there watching until she disappeared and felt guilty, a word I hadn't felt in a long time.
The urge to go after her ha
