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I work in the cafe as a barista 3 days a week, and I see you every evening. You are a regular, wanted, and your presence adds character to this place. You’ve been writing a romance novel, I overhear you say to one of the servers, as you fidget in the chair so adorably. The mellow light of the cafe, the old wood that gives the cafe its welcoming, homely atmosphere draws in so many pilgrims. But I only have eyes for you. I tried to resist it. Even now I steel my features, wishing I could escape this. I look down at the milk jug, the person on the left, the door, anywhere but at you. But slowly my eyes find their way to the dappled back corner.
Your curves: hips that swell over the sides of the chair, and huge breasts that stretch out your shirts. A line of deep dark cleavage just can’t be helped. But that isn’t enough. It’s the buried secret in your eyes, there’s kindness in there too. It’s the way your lips quirk as I place your coffee next to you. And lately it’s that smile I hadn’t noticed before. Point-blank and then as that knowledge registers you immediately look down, a little flushed.
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