I am sitting across you. My legs stretched underneath the table graze your calf occasionally. You are looking into the menu card. The four other people at our table are discussing what to eat. I am staring at you.

This is the restaurant with the cute waitress. I see her take order three tables away, she sees me smile, and returns it. I have always wanted to leave my number, but I never did.

I feel your legs move. They don’t touch mine, but I can hear the rustling cloth. We call the waitress, she and I maintain eye contact. And I am constantly smiling. I ask her for some water. As she hands me a glass our fingers brush. Is this supposed to feel electric?

I stare at you, as you laugh and tell jokes. I am surprised how the humor content depends upon on what I think of you. I am a suck up.

I keep staring at the waitress. I can’t maintain eye contact with him, otherwise she would ask me what I want. There’s only so much water a person can drink.

I want you to see me, track my gaze. You don’t even know I exist, not the real me anyway. I want you to realize what it means when you catch me staring into your eyes.

I remove my spectacles and lay them on the table. I bite my lip and stare at the bent waitress. I am sure you can see what I am seeing.

“Did you notice the glass panes shake?”, I hear you say.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.