How It Starts [H.S. I A.U.]

It's the summer of '94.

A large, warm palm moved against your dress before a deep voice barely spoke in your ear.

" 'Scuse me."

That was all it took. One touch. Two words. One and half if you were technical about it, which you were.

You turn your head quickly towards the owner of the voice, and at the same time you feel the same palm graze across your back and land on your hip, moving you gently in whatever direction he needed you to go.

You were caught off guard at how close his face was to yours, an inch, possibly two, but closer than he needed to be to get past you. You pull your face back slightly but your eyes remain glued to his as you realize two things at once: one, he has an accent, and two, his left eye was swollen almost shut, but even still he had the most beautiful face you had ever seen.