Love Shot X Shot of Love

Back again X Back again

I am not sure if my biased feelings towards Mr. Ahmad change.

Even as I sat slouched on firm concrete, contemplating enviously at the father and daughter walking shoulder to shoulder, I felt something. It can be the stern way, or the way his eyes wander over my own, demanding my unwavering attention. Or it's just nature calling me even as a child.

It is not destroying. Not in the beginning. I was too young and inexperienced despite having an idea of what the real crush would involve. There has never been a slave to the peak of my interest, not that I care about searching. To be honest, finding cute boys was a milestone that I would not reach for a few more years.

So no, because I saw the mystery father walking with measured steps back to his own home, I wasn't red in shame because I had an interest. I flushed because of the strange attraction I felt creeping through my mind. Perhaps it was that pseudonym, dripping from his lips like silk, which he would call me for years to come.

Little Zara.

I accidentally heard that name again. It ... charming .. to my little soul. Like I was special enough to get a man's attention from his position. To have him count the Name that will be owned solely to me, and only speak by him.

But, I was just a child, with knees and scraped bones knocking out from everywhere my body crooked. And within a week, a week was filled with the trials of a girl who was afraid to talk to strangers attending a new school, and a greater performance reluctantly unpacked my boxes into my new room; Mr. Ahmad was gone.

I still remember watching from my own spot on the fifth leg as she hugged my new friend goodbye. His small body clung to him like a koala bear. Gangly's legs were tightly wrapped in the middle of it, and attached like arms clinging to an affectionate life to his thick neck. I don't need to get any closer to knowing Mac is crying once again. It is evident in his desperate appeal that he silently speaks through his actions.

I did not notice the woman who was also watching the heartache of a daughter who begged her father not to leave, so that she stepped forward, her hair falling loose onto the rest in a golden wave, she said, and let go of the little girl.

It took a bold effort for who I consider to be Mother Mac. Mac's body flushed around his father's frame with surprising force, or perhaps enough despair.

She looked broken, reluctant to look him in the eye because she crouched and whispered to him what I considered a promising word. That it won't be long. That he'll be home soon.

Xxxxxxxx

Even as I sat slouched on the firm concrete, gazing enviously at the father and daughter walking hand in hand, I felt something. It could have been his assertive manner, or the way his eyes had roamed over my own, demanding my undivided attention. Or it was just his natural being that called to me even as a child.

It wasn't’t a crush. Not at first. I was too young and experienced to even have an idea as to what an actual crush would entail. There had yet to ever be a boy to peak my interest, not that I both searched. Honestly, finding a boy cute was a milestone I wouldn’t reach for more severe years.

So no, as I watched the mysterious dad walk with measured steps back to his own home, I wasn't’ because I had a crush. I was blushing because of the strange pull I felt creating it way through my mind. Perhaps it was that nickname, dripping off his lips like silk, the one that he would call me for years to come.

Little Zara's.

I innocent wanted to hear that name again. It was. endearing. Like I was special enough to have the attention of a man of his nature. To have him calculate a name that would belong solely to me, and be spoken only by him.

But, I was only a kid, with scraped knees and bones poking mockingly out of everywhere my body bent. And within one week, a week filled with the trials of a girl who feared speaking to strangers attacking a new school, and an even greater feat of reliably unpacking my mess of boxes into my new room; Mr. Ahmad was gone.

I remember watching from my self-designated spot on the sidewalk as he hugged my new friend goodbye. Her little body clinging onto him like a koala bear. Gangly legs wrapped tightly around his middle, and stick like arms clung for dear life onto his thick neck. I didn’t have to be any closet to know Mac was crying once again. It was appropriate in the desperate plea she silently spoke through her actions.

I didn’t notice the woman who also observed the heartache of a daughter pleading for her dad not to leave, until she stepped forward, her hair falling loosely down to her waste in waves of gold, and detached the small girl.

It took a valiant effort for who I assume to be Mac’s mom. Mac’s body squeezed around her dad’s frame with a surprising amount of strength, or perhaps just enough desperation.

She looked broken, refusing to look him in the eye as he crouched and whispered to her what I assume to be promoting word. That it won’t be for long. That he’ll be home soon.