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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Life Experience
- Published: 11/30/2015
Aching.
Born 1941, M, from Whitby, United KingdomAching.
Oh Dear God, I’ve just realised it’s him. He’s just come in and he’s looking at the magazine rack.
I can’t move without him seeing me. But wait a minute my racing heart, he doesn’t even know who I am.
I first saw him when I was walking to work at the newsagents. He smiled at me as I went in the door. He bought the Daily Telegraph. The only other people I know read The Sun.
I suppose that’s it really - he’s someone that I would look up to. He hasn’t a clue that I’ve been watching him - I mean really looking at him.
I can see the hair as it touches his collar and his light handed touch as he turns a page. I imagine the muscles moving under the jacket. Under the white shirt.
I wonder what on earth makes this happen. Why now at this minute should I be like a jelly? A jelly with goose pimples.
From the first time he looked at me outside the shop, no words, just a connection made somewhere through the eyes, a millisecond. Each time I see him again the door in my mind is unlocked. Some sweet Pandora’s Box full of
Vipers that paralyse the senses and weaken the limbs.
He’s just got to have someone. He’s too rich a prize to still be available in life’s
trading place.
So just shake yourself out of it - he’s not going to notice you all gooey eyed. So take a deep breath and think of England - no not England......... - think of rice pudding........ or something ..........
Oh, No, he’s coming to the till.
Oh, No, he’s coming to the till.
“Nice day, much better than yesterday, all the clouds have gone. Just the Telegraph please.
Thanks Julie.”
Aching.(Ossie Durrans)
Aching.
Oh Dear God, I’ve just realised it’s him. He’s just come in and he’s looking at the magazine rack.
I can’t move without him seeing me. But wait a minute my racing heart, he doesn’t even know who I am.
I first saw him when I was walking to work at the newsagents. He smiled at me as I went in the door. He bought the Daily Telegraph. The only other people I know read The Sun.
I suppose that’s it really - he’s someone that I would look up to. He hasn’t a clue that I’ve been watching him - I mean really looking at him.
I can see the hair as it touches his collar and his light handed touch as he turns a page. I imagine the muscles moving under the jacket. Under the white shirt.
I wonder what on earth makes this happen. Why now at this minute should I be like a jelly? A jelly with goose pimples.
From the first time he looked at me outside the shop, no words, just a connection made somewhere through the eyes, a millisecond. Each time I see him again the door in my mind is unlocked. Some sweet Pandora’s Box full of
Vipers that paralyse the senses and weaken the limbs.
He’s just got to have someone. He’s too rich a prize to still be available in life’s
trading place.
So just shake yourself out of it - he’s not going to notice you all gooey eyed. So take a deep breath and think of England - no not England......... - think of rice pudding........ or something ..........
Oh, No, he’s coming to the till.
Oh, No, he’s coming to the till.
“Nice day, much better than yesterday, all the clouds have gone. Just the Telegraph please.
Thanks Julie.”
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