Oh. Oh.
Hoping I'm correctly reading his signals, I press my outstretched hand flat to the table and push myself to subtly lean forward so the edge of the wood is pressing into the bottom of my ribcage.
His head nodding in encouragement, I tear my...
A thick drizzle of amber colored sugar slowly spilled down the sides of the singular-- but enormous-- fluffy Belgian waffle that was speckled with warm and melty dots of chocolate and freshly sliced strawberries. My stomach growled and twisted synchronously during my intense adored scrutinization of the meal laid in front of me on the grey slab table-top of the quaint breakfast joint Harry had decided to drag us to after copious attempts of trying to make me pick the destination for our afternoon "tattoo rendezvous" as Harry had come to call it.
After our quiet but close stroll to his banana mobile, Harry led me over to the passenger side to open my door. I had hesitated to climb into the seat, however, when I noticed his chipped and sticker-bombed guitar case taking residence there.
"Oh, here let me just toss this into the back. Can't have ole Mayer falling and crushing your precious toes, now can we?" His playful tone eased a smile onto my face that froze right off as he leaned his still barren and inked upper body into his car after tossing a glinting wink over his shoulder.
I shamelessly (for once) admired-- and drooled-- over his smooth and spotless back that was completely free of swirling black ink but instead just valleys of rippling muscle under bronzed skin. The closer I looked, the more details popped out like the light freckles dusting the tops of his shoulders, the small indents of his spine that created half-moon shadows, and the stray rich curls that clung to the moisture still present on his bent neck. The short minute it took him to lean in and toss his instrument into the backseat felt like long enough to commit every small movement or mole to memory so well I wouldn't need a reference to duplicate a realism portrait that rivaled Mona Lisa herself.
Blinking my glazed eyes and clearing my parched throat, I diverted my attention to the odd statement he had made before my attention was stolen in images of running my lips up the sharp blade of his shoulder and sinking my fingers into the mass of damp ringlets hanging like a curtain hiding his face from view.
"Wait, did you say that your guitar was named Mayor?"
Unfolding from his bent stature, he ruffled his veined digits across his locks before furrowing his brows and then combing them back out of his squinted eyes. An action that stole the just returned breath from my lungs and turned my legs into unsteady and wriggling slinkies that, with one push, would send me tumbling clumsily down onto the concrete.
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