We meet in a coffee shop, as informal freelance interviews often go in my world.

He's late. The day is grey. I could have slept a little longer.

He seems apologetic as he saunters down to me in a plaid shirt and beanie. Sunglasses on his face as I sit in my newly purchased dress, sipping my overpriced tea.

( god. whatagreatface.)

( wait. no. stop)

He looks so casual, so completely relaxed as he approaches me. I observe him cautiously as I hold his script in my hands, notes scribbled in the margins.

(shit.)

Official introductions. Formalities. Quick chatter.

I catch myself breaking him down into tiny pieces. That deep, calm voice. That beautiful accent. Those squinty clear blue eyes revealed at long last as he places his glasses on the table – unearthing my soul in his gaze.

We discuss the work. My questions. My notes. He fills in the blanks for me with details about his story.

No matter the storm raging inside – I've always managed to exude confidence, strength, and professionalism.

(dontgiveitaway. becool)

He smiles and it lights up the bleak day, eyes sparkling with a passion his demeanor does not portray as if to say, I don't care if this works out. But,

the project is interesting

(ohfuck. supresstheinterest inhim)

and I so want to be a part of it.

(pleasechooseme. ineedtobearoundyoumore.)

We move on. Technicalities. Game plan. Schedules: his and mine. More things to finesse. The promise of a call on his lips.

(suchprettylips.)

And then he walks away leaving me…

Compromised…

I can feign disinterest. But as I stare into the space his absence left my mind plays images in my head. Of secret looks. Of kisses in the shadows. Of his hands on my body.

This was our beginning. This is my end