Not quite gone.
You know the drill. The thought of his smile makes you smile, the way he strides about makes you weak at the knees, and his lips, oh his lips.
You’re constantly on red alert for seeing him and you feel like you’re never going to be attracted to anyone else. When he calls you turn into a wibbling mass of girlie hormones and giggles and then kick yourself when you hang up for being such a massive sook.
You get a severe case of mentionitis, finding ways to slip his name into conversation and bring the topic back round to the undeniable chemistry between you.
And then the disappointment.
Real life comes whooshing in like a smack upside the head and you realise, the special wink and a smile, the pet name and the late night messages is all an act. It’s bluff, swagger, banter, and it’s available to anyone.
Hello, I quite fancy you, would you like to come into my den of zum zum? Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full.
Then sweeps in the sheer embarrassment and with hindsight you’d have been MUCH cooler, like Stephanie Zanoni with her flicked up collar and leather jacket. All witty retorts and badassery, no wibbly giggles.
He starts to slide from your mind, the messages slow to a trickle, and his smile becomes merely an expression of happiness and not something that causes your solar plexus to flex wildly. He goes back to being a mere mortal rather than a Greek God chiselled from marble and his chat becomes transparent.
And then it’s over. You both carry on with what you were doing before and it goes back to being placid, some might say dull. The sparkle dies and it’s like it never existed.
Until you see a see a picture of his abs that you could bounce a shiny penny off and it reminds you, some men are good for the eyes and not good for the soul.