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This guy, the one I tell myself sternly is not attractive, passes behind me as I'm carrying a cup of tea.  "Hey, the tag of your sweater is sticking out." I pause as his arm reaches out toward me, hishand sweeping my ponytailed hair away from my neck in an attempt to reach the tag. I'm usually standoffish about who I let touch my hair, but I keep still, steadying my tea cup. My hair is heavier than he anticipates and as it falls back into place, he sweeps it away again. And again. A brush of his hand finally, firmly, secures my hair against my neck, sending prickles along my spine. as his other hand rearranges my tag and sweater, I involuntarily, deeply, embarrassingly, shiver against the sliding of his fingers. I can't see his face so I don't know if he's noticed, but the crimson creeps across my chest and collarbone anyway. "There you go. All better now." A quick pat on the back over the now-secure tag. "Thanks." I keep walking, never turning around.

At least I didn't drop my tea.

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