Maybe it’s just me but the bigger font seems to help me get to my word count faster. I also promise to, at some point this weekend, go back the past thousand weeks and correct the dates on my titles so that all of them are numbered. The colons are left there to remind me, force me to do it.
I am not bold about the short-term crush, the unnamed sort that is around for a while and then won’t be, either because his hours are up and he’ll go back to being the slightly sleepy-eyed reprobate that got him to have to hang around in the first place or because I’ll be gone – new job, new crushes, new sense of emotional wellbeing that might preclude these insane moments of desperation and longing. However, as he stood about in the drizzle that never became a full-blown rainstorm, my eyes drifted that way. He is a “bad boy,” but he seems as placid and uneventful as can be, smiling and shaking hands with people, friendly and tolerant of the work we’ve given him to do. I ogled a bit. I’m human, and I don’t think my ogling was at all apparent to anyone but myself so I don’t think I’m bending my feminist intentions too far by running my eyeballs over this gentleman’s fine absence of an arse. And I guess I respect the fact that he’s putting the work in and getting the hours done, though it’s worrisome that he’s back with us. Have I mentioned that – I mean, obviously our laissez-faire sort of system didn’t exactly drum the troublesome thoughts out of his head because he went back and got caught again and I have to sort of wonder if my lusts are best pinned on a man who isn’t clever enough to avoid getting caught twice. But since my non-feminist, boilerplate horny female intentions are going to wither on the vine, might as well think about this rapscallion character being kind to me for twenty minutes in a dark corner where he could make me forget all of these infectious and invasive thoughts that are needling me. Might as well think about being with him and that being an alright thing.
I have to get up at four in the morning and then go to the market and I guess look at my thumbs or something because there’s not much point in me trying to maneuver tents and chairs. It will also be cold like it was tonight and I am not mentally ready for layers of tights and socks and shirts and jackets and hats. Mr. Second Term will be there again, supposing he doesn’t get drunk and forget (which is sounding pretty appealing and I actually think I’m going to pick up some Jamesons’ as a method of dealing with this ratcheting anxiety). I will not confess anything to him about wanting to run my fingers through his pretty hair, but leer as politely and gingerly as I can until the moment allows me to escape and recommence smiting myself in the head and despairing of my loneliness.