I'm in Spanish class for the third time this week. I sit at the desk nearest the wall, half way back from the front of the room and the huge whiteboard that dominates it. My choice of seat is not incidental; not picked haphazardly. I opted for this desk deliberately and there are reasons for this.
Three very good reasons.
One being the fact it is next to the radiator. Self explanatory to anyone who has stepped foot into my school- and is obliged to remove their coat, scarf and fingerless gloves- in the latter half of the autumn term. Two: the position means I can mostly avoid the evil eye of Miss Walker who instead seems to focus her ritual humiliation on those sculking on the back row or bestowing 'muy biens' and 'excelentes' on those keening at the front.
And the third reason is the most important reason. The REAL reason I sit where I sit. The third reason is quite simply because if I sit next to the wall, against that warmth of the radiator, I am not only afforded the best, unobscured view of James Malone possible but I can also watch him the whole lesson without it looking like I am staring. Even though I am. Staring.
James Malone. James. Malone. I whisper his name out loud to myself sometimes, when there's no one else around to hear me. James Malone. The two words mean nothing individually but put them together, and there he is. Living, breathing evidence of my favourite collocation.
James Malone has dark brown hair which he used to keep short and cropped close to his head; tidy. It's grown out now and falls into his face, the strands lightened by the sun last summer almost touching his collar. When he reaches to push back his fringe, I watch his slim fingers with both fascination and envy. I want to do that; to slide my hand, to flex my fingers and feel his hair against my skin.
There are a lot of things I'd like to do with James Malone.
