He took the cup of coffee that was next to him. As soon as the cold liquid touched his lips, he frowned and rushed to the kitchen. He placed the dull porcelain cup in the microwave for a few seconds.
His biceps contracted when he pressed his back and hands against the marble cabinets. I stared at his tall and lean body covered with a tight gray sweatshirt and a black sweatpants.
I've watched through his eyes, I've listened through his ears, and I tell you he's the one. Or at least as close as we're going to get. I've admired him closely and from afar for years. I was not expecting our relationship to get any better. I was not the door handle I was so jealous of. I was not the coffee cup he drank from and caressed with his fingers everyday. I was only a small carpet placed between the living room and the kitchen.
He stepped on me daily with his slippers to get breakfast, to heat his coffee. All I could hope was for him to take off his shoes and his socks one day so I could feel his bare feet. But he was a clean man and would never allow his precious skin touch a dirty old rag like me.