I fidgeted with my phone nervously waiting for him to text back. Senior year was a fucking blur, but the still point in the world was the 90 minutes a day I got to spend with Mr. Harris. He was a perfect gentleman, married, kind, coached track so fit as fuck, and I know what I did was wrong but a girl has to shoot her shot.
He never even made me feel like I had a shot, well at least not until a few weeks ago. I don’t know. My mind raced through every interaction parsing his notes for meaning. His praise, and laughter, a delicate hand on the lower back. Was it something or was it the obsession of a fatherless girl.
Before school let out there was a ride home where he softly hummed the Police and I giggled nervously at the song while I felt my nipples get stiff in my bralette. They strained through the delicate fabric of my dress and I ran the back of my hand across my breast and bit my lip, wishing it was his hands sending the electric bolt through me. It started to rain and he sat with me in my driveway discussing how corny Sting had become. This is where I knew he had to feel something too.