“Morning,” she says, smiling and taking a seat on the bench next to Jim.
More than anything in the world, Jim wants to reply.
He wants to open his mouth and tell her that she has invaded his mind and occupied it like an unstoppable army; that every single minute of his day includes some thought of her; that he hasn’t driven his car to work in months, because the five minutes he spends near her each morning on the train platform are the most joyous moments of his life; that he despises the weekend, because Saturday and Sunday rob him of those few short minutes; that the soft, unruly mass of brown curls adorning her head and the delicate alabaster column of her throat are the most beautiful sights he has ever beheld; that each night he dreams of sitting beside her on this bench holding her hand and that waking from that dream each morning nearly leaves him weeping. He wants to say that he is hopelessly, desperately in love with her.
But instead, he just smiles and nods dumbly. Again. Because no matter how much he wants to, he simply can’t speak. She takes his breath away.