It is then that I see him.

He is undeniably beautiful, looking lost but somehow found, in that way only the best boys can.

His hair is black, sort of emoish and falling in his eyes, and his pants look like a pair I think I have folded up in the bottom of my drawer. His shirt is dark green, with an abstract design on it and white letters saying something I can't quite make out.

He sees me staring at him, my jaw most likely dropped in that awed way I have. I reach into my mess of a purse, achingly breaking away from the eye contact, and pull out my greenish-black plastic-framed glasses, sticking them on spastically so I can make sure that he’s actually a he and not a she.

He is most assuredly a 'he.'

Thankfully.

Because I honestly have just fallen in love, that only-found-in-movies, love-at-first-sight sort of shit. Pure cliché. And pure reality. Or at least it feels like it.

Priya, standing next to me in stilettos and a dangerously tiny miniskirt with her black hair curling mischievously around her shoulders, taps on my shoulder with that acrylic claw she calls a finger and semi-soberly hisses in my ear, “What is it? Because you’re so not listening to anything I have to say.”

I am still standing there, jaw on the floor, and watching him watch me.

His face is screwed up in that undoubtedly adorable ‘what-are-you-looking-at-me-for?-did-I-forget-my-pants?' look, and he looks at me, then points at himself with one finger. "Me?" he mouths.

It’s like karma. Or something like it.

And, honestly, I have no idea what that meant.

But anyways, he’s still pointing, and I nod, trance-like at first, then snapping out of it and looking at Priya instead.

“Him,” I say meaningfully, though Priya, who’s had one too many spiked Red Bulls, isn’t looking at me anymore. Now she’s looking at George Iverson, and trying to shoot him some seductive look that makes her look more like a cow than a sexy vixen.

“Yeah, I know, isn’t George just looking fine tonight? I love that sweater on him,” she sighs into my ear. I decide not to point out that George isn’t wearing a sweater, and, instead, I walk away slowly, and towards Mystery Boy.

He looks startled, wearing that perfectly clichéd deer-caught-in-headlights look, and I know he hadn’t been expecting me to walk over to him.

Come to think of it, I wasn’t expecting to walk over to him, either.

But now that I’m standing right in front of him, I say, in a breathy, unintentionally-sexy tone, “Hey," and immediately smack myself for it.

Hey. And that voice? What was that?

I can’t help thinking that old saying my mom always used to say—“Hay is for horses"—and it ruins the moment, but only slightly, because Mystery Boy responds with an equally as cool and sexy, “Hey.”

The best pairings always start with paired ‘hey’s. That’s what Priya said once, though she doesn’t quite remember. As I recall, she was still somewhat drunk from the beer she had downed to escape the heat of the massive amount of chicken tikka masala she had consumed at her last family reunion, where I had kinda-sorta-almost fallen in love with her third cousin, Ben.

Ben was gay, though, so it didn’t really work out.

“Ava,” I say, and I don’t think he realizes that it’s my name at first. He’s sort of still struck-dumb by the fact that I’m actually talking to him. At least, that’s what my brain’s telling me. He looks confused at first, but then he realizes that I’m making an introduction of myself, and the confusion is gone.

“Eli,” he responds, and I instantly melt. On the inside, that is. Because that is absolutely the cutest name, I swear. It's not seductive like Lawrence or debonair like James. It's actually sort of boyish, but it's adorable, and it fits him perfectly.

This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I’m sort of plain: less-than-average weight (which has never exactly bothered me although I permanently have just five more pounds to lose) all-natural dirty blonde hair that actually can be pretty shiny and manageable if the weather’s right, chunky plastic glasses that make me look very indie-rocker and very indie-rocker-chick, and about five feet of height. So you can tell that I’m not the drop-dead-gorgeous, busty type. I don’t exactly have sexuality oozing from my pores.

Though, honestly, I wouldn’t mind if it did.

And now, I think, is the closest I’ve ever gotten to oozy-sexuality. Right here, with this amazingly sexy boy with amazingly sexy hair, amazingly sexy clothes, amazingly sexy eyes, an amazingly sexy body, and an amazingly sexy name.

Okay, so maybe 'sexy' isn't the word. But I'm too stunned to think of anything better-fitting.

I’m still waiting for the “Who the hell are you? Get out of my face you poser!” being spat in my face, followed by a kick in the ass by some scene chick who looks like she just raided Sephora and could only find the bad makeup.

Either that or some fat emo girl in a hoodie with red-streaked black hair and tear-stained cheeks.

But none of that happens.

Mystery Boy, who is now known as Eli, looks at me in a strange way, and goes, “Um, hello…,” waving his awesomely sexy hand in front of my plain-Jane face in one of those um-I’m-trying-hard-to-get-your-attention-but-you-won't-look-up sort of waves.

“Oh!” I say as I snap back to reality. “Sorry…I was being channeled.” And immediately I think, Oh my God. Way to screw your only-found-in-movies, love-at-first-sight crap up with a lame-ass joke!

But he laughs.

A perfect laugh. Lacking all those stupid snorts that weird people seem to have. It’s one of those things that all sexy people just naturally possess. A great, fabulous, perfect laugh.

I laugh too, though my un-sexy, un-perfect laugh sort of ruins the moment. I don’t snort or spit or do anything strange, but it’s just not as beautiful as his.

“Sorry for the lame joke…I can’t help myself,” I say, turning pink undoubtedly.

Repeat after me: to talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming. Say it again. To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.

“It’s okay,” he replies, grinning in this fabulous way where his lips are closed and only the left side of his mouth turns up. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. “I have a tendency to act on impulses, which really hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Um, except here. Regretting my every word…." He trails off bashfully and is slightly pink, staring at his Vans instead of me.

I almost pass out on the floor.

Wait—correct that. I almost pass out in his arms.

He is perfect. Impulsiveness is another thing I tend to possess at the most inopportune times.

Like now.

Because I do the most impulsive thing that I think I have ever done.

I kiss him.

I stand up on my toes to reach his face, put my hand behind his head, and pull his face towards mine, and I almost pull back as my brain thinks things through, but, before I know it, he has brought us closer together, and his lips, soft and perfect, are on mine.

And in another instant, too short to have been sweet at all, we are apart, and both of us are the color of a tomato. No joke.

He is smiling bashfully, though, and I just want to jump into his arms and make him my sex slave. Because—God, he is beautiful.

He isn’t much taller than me, only about six inches or so, and I kind of like that. Anyone too tall just ruins everything. Although, when you’re barely five feet tall, you look short next to anyone.

Eli’s eyes move from mine to an undefined spot over my shoulder, and I know someone’s approaching.

I immediately picture the sceneish whore and the ugly emo giantess, and as I turn around to face this person, it is one of them I’m envisioning. Mostly the ugly emo giantess. Partially because I love the word ‘giantess.’

But it’s not the sceneish whore or the ugly emo giantess I see. It is simply Priya, tapping her red stiletto and looking perturbed.

“Let’s ditch this place,” she says, annoyed and looking back and forth between Eli and I. “Ava, George was being an ass. So we’re leaving.”

I look at Eli and am about to say something, until she interrupts again with an angry “Now.” She grabs my arm with her claws and pulls me away harshly.

I want to kick Priya away and run and jump into Eli’s arms for safety, but the seven years she’s been playing tennis have paid off: her arms are like steel, pulling me along in a death grip.

And, as quick as I fell in love with Eli, I left him.