Thoughts while standing in line for coffee

I love a man with long hair. Loose or loc’d—it doesn’t matter. As long as he can throw it up into a messy bun, I’m his. All his.

I would gladly bear his children.

“Excuse me, miss?”

The way he rubs his goatee, stares at me with those piercing brown eyes, I worry he may have heard my thoughts.

Good, that voice in my head says, cut to the chase.

He bends down and I lose my nerve. “Not in public!” I squeal.

“I’m sorry?” He hands me my pen. “You dropped this.”

I just might pee on myself.

© Nortina Simmons