Today I picked 191, thought it was a pretty number + today is the 19th~“It’s fine,” I say, turning away to wipe the counter down so I don’t have to look at him. He’s wearing a Morehouse hoodie and dark jeans, and I’m not sure I prefer him business fine-ass or casual thirst trap. The man really needs to stop working out. And aging, because apparently that’s not helping matters either. His fineness is only getting worse the older he gets, and I can’t concentrate. I’ll wait until he leaves before I peel these sweet potatoes, or I ‘ll lose a fingertip surreptitiously drooling over my ex.
