And now here he was sitting on the couch in my apartment meters from my bedroom. I saw him walking down the street blocks away from me, I was tempted to wave but couldn't muster the courage. And then he flagged me down. I'm thankful the distance hid my blushing. I don't know exactly how it happened. It all seems a blur. We grabbed a coffee nearby; I'm having trouble remembering what we discussed. I remember needing to grab something in my apartment nearby and inviting him in. I watched him take off his coat. He asked for some tea and then sat down on the couch. Without hesitating I said, "Brilliant!" in the worst British accent that ever left my mouth and started making the tea; I didn't ask what kind he wanted. I made small talk while the water heated up. I was incredibly frustrated to find myself anxiously waiting for the water to steam. It was a chai tea I added honey and vanilla soymilk to. I placed the cups on a plate to bring them over to the couch. He complimented the lay out of my apartment. THE PAINTING! That's what we were talking about. It was strange, I wanted desperately to grab my pen and notebook and hide behind them. I felt exposed. I felt revealed. I already felt naked. He asked me my thoughts on the painting. I told him it was only a print, but I had seen it before hanging in a museum. I told him about how the interplay between the blues and the reds just spoke to me. He asked me my thoughts on the brush strokes. I moved my hand to push my hair behind my ear. My clumsy hand somehow hit his cup.

I spilled the tea.