I know what you are. What you do. Those days that are just draining and tiring. All you want to do is go home and relax. Cover up on the couch and maybe watch some tv. Or just take a nap.
I know you’re so tired baby. In need of a sweet release. A passionate, intense release.
That’s when I knock on the door. It’s me your coworker. We rarely talk. We’ve only shared a couple glances. But, when I do see you, I notice just how beautiful you are, how your eyes speak volumes, and how you’re quite taciturn. I think to myself, “She’s so fucking cute.” I immediately start to tune out those lewd thoughts. Because I know it’s wrong. I shouldn’t be thinking of you in an explicit manner. I shouldn’t be imagining what you would look like with your hair all messy and disheveled, your makeup running down your face, your expression all flustered and red.
I wouldn’t want to corrupt such a quiet innocent girl.
You invite me in for a drink.
“Tea is fine. Sure.”