The Guy

He's not even my type, but I want him.

Everyone has a type, don't they?  I've always been attracted to the nerdy boys.  The good boys in black vests.  The professor-man attire, thick scarves in winter.  One hand clutching a cup of java, the other wrapped around a journal or a book, amost delicately.  A man of good wines by the names I can't pronounce.  An intellectual kind of guy with a huge vocabulary, grammar natze, aloof becaues he knows he's got something that interests the smart girls.

Guys in glasses.  Guys who write, who read.  The bookstore marms.  Guys that look shy, although they aren't.  Or maybe some of them are, so you know you'll definitely leave your mark by teaching them something...giving them an off-the-wall experience they've never had before. 

Yes, that's what always gets me.  The nerdy, hipster guy.  To me, that kind of guy has always had it going on.


But he is nothing of the sort.  The total opposite, actually.  He's the kind of guy I grew up with.  The hard-working country boy with rough-callous palms, clad in workboots and no shirt on.  Body glistening of sweat as he swings the chissel.  His hair smells of earth, slightly balding at the hairline in a way that makes him real.  He probably hasn't read a good book since highschool, but the man can build a house of his own accord.  A guy who builds the fire, rather than lazily warm his hands by work of someone else's fireplace.


The immediate friend zone guy.  Except this time I want a little more than friendship.  There's something about him that makes me want him.

He's the ideal Cancer to my dream-roaming Pisces.  The boy feels like home.  And so far he's yet to do anything physically, besides call me baby.