Crushtomers

When they pulled me in for a hug, my mind was racing a million different miles by the generosity of their warmth. They were kind, comfy, soft, protective, and oh so very close. Their cologne smelt like they just walked out of a hot shower: squeaky clean and a good guy. I squeezed his ribs soo tight that they could’ve burst, and sung soo innocently into their chest “I missed you soo much!”
They just pulled me in tighter. I pull back to look up and see them smiling back at me like I was a new born baby. And all I could think of to say in the moment was “so, how can I help you?”.

They were my customer. And now my crush. A crushtomer. A forbidden fruit. Our relationship always danced between professional and sexual, clean and dirty, cute and flirtatious, because looking back at our timeline you wouldn’t be able to pin point where those lines blurred. We were just an eclectic mix of different memories smashed together into one painting, everywhere, like an explosion. I was the blank canvas and they were like crayons.

“How are you, cutie?” My butterflies smiled a little on the inside.
“Goooooooood, how are yoooouuuuuu?”
“Yea. Gooooooooooooooood.” And then he teasingly poked my right cheek while wearing his signature winning grin. Who needs make up when you already have a natural flush?

Reality unveils it’s ugly face, though, when the curtain suddenly drops and it’s back to work. And there it is, again, that god damn freaking great chinese wall. I’m not sure if it was built to keep me out, or him. But certain things here and there suggested the former. Like yesterday they called me cute, and then the other day they gave me one of those ‘bro’ hugs with a pat on the back. I slowly started to assign myself as the role of the ugly friend instead of girlfriend more and more each day until I was soo sure that they couldn’t be interested in me, until ...