There he is. Every time he walks by it is like his cologne is his ghost, wisping fine, smoky trails that float into the air; am I the only one that can see? His aura has so much of a personality of its own that it seems like there are two of him. His appearance is exceedingly beautiful; his ironed dress shirts elegantly tuck into his dark wash jeans and fall to his brown, leather shoes. His skin looks as smooth as the cappuccinos he says he does not like. His body holds a face that brags of God’s craftiness; on top, his face is capped with dark, evenly cut hair, while a clean chin strap accentuates his jaw line. An espresso brown curls in the irises of his eyes, while the shape of the surrounding skin makes it seem like the eyes themselves are smiling. He walks with a shy, quirky confidence, and his lingering, espresso gaze follows behind his steps like wisping smoke, with his head turned back to watch what I hope is my figure. His figure—superbly more attractive than mine—is built with an established design of muscles that move breathlessly with the fibers in his clothing.