Teeth-chattering, goose-pimply, words dropping like ice cubes from trembling lips, cold. Not cold, nervous energy, enough to air condition a third-world, desert country.
Normally a well-maintained professional, whenever he’s around, I turn into a quivering jellyfish. I can’t speak without stammering or walk without stumbling over a piece of lint on the carpet.
I must come across like a love-struck schoolgirl, incapable of carrying on an adult conversation. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I don’t know what to do with my hands.
Too bad I’m old enough to be his mother.