I’m pretty sure that I’m slightly possibly completely obsessed with the guy on the floor above me who has nothing in common with me. Right, I may have neglected to mention him. We can call him Sandwich Boy. This is because he is in my literature class, and he never has time to eat lunch because his history class is right before it, so I once thought of making a turkey sandwich and wrapping in a napkin to bring him. I never have the desire to make people food. This is terrible.
We’ve spoken about three times in the elevator, but he’s got these long-lashed big brown eyes that remind me of Lindt truffles and hazelnuts, and this perfectly pink, almost girlish mouth that’s balanced out by his stern jawline. Oh god. You just became a trashy romance writer. These descriptions are reserved for novels like Stella’s Choice, or The Lady and the Rogue. Perhaps we can banter and then make wildly passionate love against the hull of his ship. I don’t actually know what part that is, but it sounds appropriate.
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