Tensions were high. The dissolving electrolytes mixed with the blood plasma in my body, reacted and precipitated sweat that in turn poured from my glands—enough for me to feel its release yet subtle enough that his naked eye never noticed.

  My body was having a field day. I tried to focus my agitation elsewhere, which made me nervously bite my soft, luscious lips, allowing me to faintly taste the strawberry gloss I had applied that morning. I clenched my left fist under the counter, which dug my frail nails right into my sweaty palms whilst my other hand pressed up against my freckled face. He leaned in so close. I could smell the fragrance of his Gucci cologne. I forgot where I was for a second. I had to catch myself because I looked at him as if I was ready to devour him like he was something to eat off of our restaurant's menu.

  "Are you okay?" he murmured. His voice was an octave lower than I expected it to be, almost authoritative. I knew he had an English accent, but this was the first time I had ever heard him speak up close. Before that, it had only been nods and friendly waves.

  I gulped, my mouth suddenly dry and mumbled,

  "Yes, one spicy burger with a large fry and a milkshake coming up!"

  My only option was to completely bury my head in the task of making his order because if I didn't, I would falter. Him being here, right now, was too much. My anxiety couldn't take it.

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  I was introverted—always had been. I kept to myself, not because I was shy, but because I didn't like the social scene. Peter was the complete opposite. He was a total rager. He was at a party every other day, and if he wasn't, he was never home.

  I was so preoccupied with the profundity of my own mind that I accidentally cut myself with the blade trying to open his sandwich. It was too small for him to notice, but the tingling sensation told me it was there. His meal was ready after about 10 minutes of pure, quiet apprehension. I just needed to ring it up as I was the cashier that day.

  "Your total is $17," I said

  He reached his nimble, agile hands into his tapered jeans, then nonchalantly handed me the money. Unavoidably, he ran his gentle fingers through his wavy hair. I thought I could stand here and admire him in limbo—the way that with each brush, one strand escaped and rested perfectly on his forehead, almost touching the peak of his brow.

  My pulse was uneasy. I heard my heartbeat pounding through my chest. I pondered on whether to engage in conversation with him but before I could he gestured to grab his receipt from my hand, the sensation of the tips of his fingers trailing up against mine made my body just about quiver.

  "Thanks, neighbor," he said whilst saluting me like I was a general on an army base, one hand raised while the other held his takeout. I couldn't stop myself—the flush in my cheeks gave me away, and, in turn, so did his dimples. I think that was the first time I saw Peter smile. He had a nice smile, accompanied by small hollows that indented his cheeks. The fact that he didn't overlook me erased all my doubts of whether I was important enough to remember. In my mind, it told me I left an indelible impression that was enough to acknowledge.

  He proceeded to turn his back to me. My focus was now on his veiny otherwise graceful nape of his neck, which displayed a breathtaking portrait of a spiraling, petalled, rose tattoo. I watched him walk away leaving me with my heart on my sleeve. Just before he disappeared his body collaborated in aiding with the coupled motion of his shoulder blades and the slight adjustment of his now curved vertebrae, to support his neck, as he turned around. Our eyes locked instantly. I had already been admiring him and hadn't expected him to turn around. Suddenly, it felt like that cut on my hand wasn't the only opening—my heart palpitated.