Present Day

The Prompt: You still smell like my childhood.

You pick at a loose thread on your jeans while I watch. My head is down, ringing up a customer's order, but I keep my eyes on you through a curtain of hair. You look the same as you always did. Taller and stronger, but still the same. Your brown eyes stare lazily across the room and try as I might, I can't see what catches your attention. It certainly isn't me.

You take another step in line, coming ever closer and I hope you notice me. The idea is thrilling and butterflies flutter in my stomach. I take another peek, but you're still looking across the room so I take the opportunity to study you carefully. You're dressed for work, jeans and a t-shirt despite the heat. Your skin is a pale brown, tanned from your hours of work in the sun, but when you reach back to scratch your neck, I see the pale skin beneath your hem. The back of your neck is red and grass stains adorn your jeans.

I keep watching you until you reach the register. Then I duck my head down, embarrassed by my quiet observations. "A small coffee," you say, not bothering to look straight at me. I'm a nobody here, only the hands that supply coffee. "Black."

You still smell like my childhood. Freshly mowed grass. Antibacterial soap. Clean clothes. As you hand over the bills to pay, I notice the dirt under your fingernails. The smudges left on your shirt from wiping your hands. You're closer than you've been in years, yet you don't notice me. You're still staring off in the distance, a blank expression on your face. Tired and drawn. Your eyelids droop. You need the caffeine.

My hands tremble as I hand over your drink and your fingers graze mine, the slightest touch an electric shock, sending lightning through my veins. But it's over and I let go. "Thanks." You turn your back and before I have the chance to say a single word, you're out the door. You don't look back. I'm the one left staring after you, like always.