I just ordered chinese, and more intense than my craving for potstickers and hunan tofu is the hope that he'll deliver it, my delivery man/secret lover. So secret, he doesn't even know that we have a thing. There's a possibility that he knows, I suppose. In my craziest, fueled by John Hughes films, fantasy, he barters with the other delivery staff to get to take my order, even giving up the $2 and odd change tip that he knows is waiting for him at my door, just so he can get a chance to see me. He grins as he drives toward my house, tugs a little on his shirt to reveal a patch of chest hair that he hopes drives me wild.

And it does, but the smile is what slays me, a slow-spreading grin that gives off the vibe that he's glad to see me, like we're old friends or teammates coming back together to do what we did best. I wonder what he smells like, if I would even be able to smell him under the reek of working in a restaurant. I wonder if his lips are soft, or what his head would feel like on my chest. I wonder if he even likes chinese food.

I hear a car in the driveway.