Every morning he arrives wearing an impeccable shirt, often a blue one. It's always neat, clean, perfectly pressed, and he fills it like chocolate fills a freshly baked cookie. He gives exactly that impression: of freshness. His shirt is almost crisp, and when he kisses me good morning—a simple touch of our cheeks, half of the days he doesn't even touch my shoulder with his warm hand—I can smell him. There's the comforting smell of his shirt, a scent of freshly washed clothes after they dried out in the sun, still warm; there's the refreshing smell of his shaving cream, a perfectly male scent, not intrusive or strong, with just a touch of mint; there's the suave smell of his soap.
Every morning he says, “Good morning, Ms. Callahan,” with a lovely smile, and every morning I wonder what his mouth tastes like. The latte he likes to drink? Toothpaste? Pastries? A fresh mint? Or is it just a unidentifiable taste, a sweet, warm touch of his tongue, better than anything I've ever tasted in my life? I don't know, but if the taste is half as good as his smell, I could kiss him all day long.
Every morning he smiles when I answer back, “Good morning, Mr. Tavers.” Sometimes, two or three times a week, he chats for a moment. “How was your weekend?” he may ask on a Monday, and I'll lie and say it was great. “Lovely day, isn't it?” I agree, knowing that he has a window that he can look through and I don't. “It's so cold outside today.” I agree, picturing myself taking his coat off and then the rest of his clothes.
Every morning he enters his office, closing the door, and I postpone my plans of entering his office wearing only my heels for tomorrow, holding to the hope that today he'll notice me, at last.