The walk home is long, but I take the time to clear my head. I almost lost it back there; almost. I've never been so moved in my life, I've never been so nervous. He changes me, mixes me up, I've missed this feeling of being confused. I've missed the longing I have for him. I forget how I got back home.

I'm just sitting in my apartment, staring at my TV, lost in silent thought. Spot runs around on my lap like an idiot; she looks nothing like her dad Stripe, but I love her anyway. She's softer and cuddles with me more than that moody bastard did.

I've already told her all about seeing the lovely boy and she's as excited as I am; my lap isn't big enough for her to exert her happy energy.

I'm still imagining him, like I always have; only now I have a more recent, updated mental image. I do prefer this one to the high school one I was daydreaming about; his former self made me feel like a pedophile.

I hope he's been eating well. He looked so slender. I bet he's that skinny everywhere. My eyes wander down the make believe body I think he has. He's blushing, his eyes relaxed and his smile coy. He tugs at his well-maintained blonde locks as I tease his body, grabbing his slender waist and pulling him towards me. My hands run up and down his waist and he shivers under my touch. He looks at me with pleading eyes…

Spot runs over my boner and kills the mood instantly. Her little paws dig in to my groin and I see red. I pick her up and put her back in her cage—no grapes for that boner-killer tonight. I eat without tasting the food, nothing tastes as good as he smells.

I can't sleep; his beautiful eyes keep coming in to my vision—deep and blue. I want to stare in to them forever. Of course, when I try to, my eyes pop open and I lose yet another hour of sleep thinking about him. This can't be healthy. I really should have talked to him last night. Maybe if I did he'd be in my bed, looking at me with a satisfied expression. He'd next to me, tired and sweaty, our naked limbs intertwined in such a way that if I moved my leg even slightly he'd moan, ready for me to fuck him in to the mattress.

Oh, there's my friend again. Always showing up at inconvenient moments… The clock says its 4:30 a.m.; I have to get up in a half an hour anyway, might as well enjoy my final moments in bed.

My mind wonders to the possibilities of last night:

He grabs his cardigan and pulls, the fabric stretching under his delicate fingers. On further inspection, I notice the subtle calluses dotting his hand. I walk slowly up to him. He tenses with each of my steps. I have the sudden urge to touch him, reassure him, but I don't. Keep your cool, Tucker.

I put my hands in my pocket.

"Hey, long time no see." I'm so suave. Keep it going.

He shudders and shakes, not able to get a word out. I lean down and whisper how beautiful he is in his ear and feel him melt beneath me. I take his vulnerability to snake an arm around him and pull him close to me. He leans in to my embrace and allows me to slip off his thin cardigan. I trace his protruding collar bone with my fingers, imagining how smooth the skin is. I dip my hand around his neck and take a handful of his silky hair in my hands.

My alarm clock goes off, making obnoxious beeping noises at me. I should have turned that off before I wrapped my hand around my dick. I begrudgingly stop my current task and turn off the alarm. I can't finish, I have to get ready for yet another endless day.

I take a deliberately long shower, finding release under the hot water. The humidity clings to my skin and cools when I step out of the bathroom; a refreshing feeling.

I decide on one of my better suits; it's black with a sharp lapel. It's usually the one I wear when big-wigs come around, but seeing a certain blonde has made me a little cocky. Leaving my apartment I say a goodbye to Spot and make my way down the seven flights of stairs.

The rent on my building is cheap—only $500 a month for rent and utilities. It's only so cheap because there's no elevator in this old ass building. The landlord is an elderly lady who is too kind for her own good. People bang at her door every hour of the day complaining about the lack of an elevator. I personally don't mind it, I'll take exercise wherever I can get it.

I see my landlord sitting outside of her apartment, airing out a carpet on her make-shift laundry line. She lives on the bottom floor, so all she has to do is open the back exit and she can save some money on electricity for drying clothes. She smiles at me as I pass and hand her my monthly check—with a little extra in case I ever fall behind or lose my job.

The street is busy today; jam packed with people hurrying to their jobs. I check my watch; it's 5:30 a.m. It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk to work—I can make a detour.

I decide to familiarize myself more with the neighboring streets, considering I've usually been too focused on work to care about any other sight than my building, I didn't really explore when I first moved. Now that I've seen my lovely boy again I feel like venturing beyond my comfort zone.

The streets are lined with small convenience stores, boutiques and the occasional café. It's quaint and I can't complain, I'd rather see some bustling small businesses than big conglomerates feeding the masses filth for only a dollar. That's the kind of shit I wanted to change when I moved here, not how banks treat their customers…

A sign catches my eye and I feel oddly drawn to the reddish orange color. Suddenly I can smell South Park, the reek of mountain-free coffee hitting my nostrils like a freight train. I know that coffee smell. I move faster, trying not to look like a crazy man.

Harbucks, the family business here, in Denver, only two blocks down from my building? What the hell. Inside a long line of customers is formed at the desk. Two unrecognizable men are working the front counter, moving frantically back and forth from one machine to another. They seem like capable baristas and dispense coffees like true pros… How long has this building been here?

I search fruitless for the object of my affection, but he's nowhere to be found inside. I doubt an artsy type with a gallery open till 2 a.m. would be up right now, but I tried anyway. The fact that something like Harbucks is flourishing here is simply put, crazy. Maybe I'll stop in one day and listen to a metaphor or two.

I'm a little late to work, but that's OK, no one even acknowledged me when I walked in. Today was day two of five-hour-meetings and I'm sure I didn't look pleased walking past reception. I trudge to my desk and pull out the Meeting Minutes binder, looking over yesterday's minutes. When I go over it enough times that I believe it's perfect, I file it in the computer as a Word document and throw the original away. It takes longer than expected because I got bored halfway through and Googled my obsession, which successfully distracted me long enough to not care about filing anymore. There's so many picture of him online… Does he have a fan club?

Before I could look in to that, my boss tapped on my door twice and let himself in. "Meeting time, Tucker—let's pay attention today shall we?" Sometimes he can be so annoying…

Today's meeting was a rehash of yesterday with a little bit of ageism threw in. Sometimes an elder member of our round table would make a crack on how a 'young guy like Craig' couldn't possibly be able to understand the values of Western Union and their customer satisfaction. I just wanted to say back, 'A young man like Craig could knock out an old mother fucker like you faster than you can say customer satisfaction'… But, professionalism won out over violent tendencies and the meeting hit the halfway mark without punches being thrown.

I leaned back in my chair for the first time for two hours, my back cracked in protest and I let my legs stretch out as far as they could go, my polished shoes pointing up. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of pulling my body back to a resting position. I smile danced across my lips and I thought about last night again and again, I wanted to see him so bad it made my chest ache.

I heard a small sound, almost like a strangled gasp coming from the doorway, and I opened my eyes. Standing at the entrance of the meeting room was a slender, pale, blonde holding two large trays of coffee. My eyes are as wide as his. Oh, fate.

"Ah, perfect!" My boss quickly stands up and fumbles for his wallet, "I ordered Harbucks for everyone again, and it's everyone's favorite, right?" The rest of the men in the room grunted in approval and greedily took the brown cups from my surprised beauty. He reminds me of the girl at the gallery, all doe-eyed and shocked; only, I didn't want to fuck the gallery chick.

I stood from my chair; I was going to play this cool, just like Craig Tucker would. I reached for the last cup and plucked it from its holder. A slight smile danced across my lips.

"Thanks." I said, in my deep, smooth voice. I heard him whimper and immediately after he dropped both empty holders on the ground and bolted out of the room. Chuckling, I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the taste of the concoctions prepared by Mr. Repetitive. This was called Blue Mountain Rose if I'm not mistaken; not my favorite, but no coffee could sate my thirst for that frail boy right now.

The rest of the meeting is way too boring to explain, and not nearly as interesting as the sudden appearance of my crush. I long to say his name out loud; I want to repeat it over and over until my voice is hoarse with want. But, if he can't hear my need, then there's no use saying it. His name is like honey that slowly spreads over my lips and encloses my mouth with sticky sweet residue. But, if he's not near me, I never want to utter it.

And I can't say it yet. I can't go up to him and talk to him. I can't say that name that slips through my lips so naturally. I used to call to him all the time. I loved to say his name. He would jump whenever I did, eyes instantly on mine, and I would live in that moment, when he was mine. All of his attention, mine.

I could get off to that reaction.

I'm still a little strung out on the coffee and the chance meeting after work to go home. I need to go out, be somewhere, with people. I consider the gallery again, but I might just rip off the boy's clothes if I see him again. I decide on a place where the chance of running in to him is still existent, but a bit smaller.

Harbucks is empty when I walk in. It seems no one wants coffee when the work day is done and sleep is a comfort. I walk up to the deserted counter and ask the young man for a small, Mountaineer with a bit of Blue Rose and a splash of Campfire on top with five creamers, seven sugars and two shots of espresso. The guy behind the counter gives me an exasperated look and begins my customized concoction. It takes him three tries to get him right, but when I take that sip and I go back seven years to when I was in high school messing with coffee combinations until two in the morning, I give him a twenty dollar tip.

I have a work-issued iPad in my laptop bag and decide to kill some serious time in this coffee shop. The interior is the same as the one back in the small mountain town and I feel like I'm sixteen again, staring at my twitchy boy as he worked to serve the people of South Park.

I idly do some busy work on my tablet, catching up on the emails that were neglected today because of my distraction, sipping my coffee and picking at the bagel the guy behind the counter gave me as a thank you for the 'hella awesome tip'. It takes me a while to notice someone is staring at me as I flick through routine messages.

He just came out of the back room, his hair disheveled and his shirt covered in stains from what looks like coal. I can only assume he was working on yet another original masterpiece and I wonder what it's about. He seems calmer, in control on his emotions, much more composed than the gallery and at my work.

It's a staring contest. I can't stop looking and neither can he. I'm blown away by how stunning he looks with the light of the dim shop reflecting off of his gaunt features. His hair looks like frosted clouds, and his eyes are endless. I watch his fingers trace down the short row of buttons on the V of his cotton shirt. He feels up the buttons until the collar of his shirt and then deviates to his collar bone, feeling the shape of the protruding bone. I want to lick where his fingers touch.

I decide to look away, feeling the need to keep up this distant, cool façade. I can feel the sweat beading at my collar, my crisp suit suddenly too heavy for such a small shop. I want to beckon him to come over, sit on my lap, let him feel me press in to his ass and breathe in to his neck.

By the time I stop playing cool, finish my emails and look up he's gone. I shove my expensive electronic in my bag and pull out a pad of paper. I rip a sheet off and write my number down folding it carefully. I can't bear to write his name, so I write, "From Craig" on the front.

My walk home was warm, the coffee seeping in to my veins, reminding me of him with every step. If he was next to me, I'd reach out and take his trembling hand. I'd kiss it and leave trails down his marred fingers. His hand would shake and I'd put it against my face to still it. He would be surprised, and I'd use it to my advantage and take his lips with mine. I'd whisper his name again and again, letting the velvety sound meld our lips together.

All of these fantasies are starting to drive me off the deep end again. I need to touch him, talk to him, do something other than stare and act like a cool guy.

The next day, I wake up with a resolve; I'll talk to that bastard today, and I'll probably end up kissing him. If he cries, I don't care. I'm going to take him home with me. And besides, what do I care? I'm a dick.