Passion in Paris

So I've committed the typical faux-pas.  The lowly intern falls for the stud in her office.  How conventional.  He's not quite my boss, but he's definitely a lot more important than I am.  Although that's not a particularly mean feat. 

I'd hoped somewhere deep inside of me that he was still looking for ''The One''.  I'd told myself that the silver band on his ring finger was simply jewellery.  Perhaps even a purity ring.  So what if he's married and has kids?  I didn't see Kristen Stewart backing off.  Of course I'm kidding.  I don't pounce on what my paws don't own.  But that won't stop me forever admiring his beautiful face.  And that's not even mentioning his marvelous gait and manly facial hair which altogether make him look like a rugged God sent down from Mars.  *drools on keyboard*

And then you catch his eye once in the space of 3 hours and you make yourself believe that he's been staring at you for the past 20 minutes, trying desperately to hold your gaze for little more than is comfortable.  Just so you know that he's passionately and unequivocally in love with you.

You become obsessed with applying that extra lick of mascara to intensify each bat of the eyelash, and you're constantly checking your hair hasn't gone AWOL in the elevator mirror.  (Which, FYI, it usually has.)  Every moment of free time is spent painting your lips a darker shade of red to make you look that inch closer to kissable. And then every little bump in the corridor or awkward smile from desk to desk is scanned through your brain a million times before in some twisted part of your anatomy you believe for a second that he might feel the same way

And then suddenly you realise that there really only is one God and all this time you've been kidding yourself that he - this gorgeous human being who wears jeans like a tortoise wears its shell - could ever want more from you than to hand him something from the printer.