The first time I saw him I was startled. But now, I see him a few times a week, and I'm no longer surprised. The dairy stocking boy. Whose horn rim glasses face, impish smile greeted me mischievously from behind the cartons. From above. He was on a stepladder, in the chilled room on the other side of the milk refrigerators. And peered at me, that first time Between ricotta and sour cream. Eyes following me from a pint, a half gallon, a gallon. Then, between skim and one percent, I noticed him and jumped. Such eyes, seen behind the cheeses. Dark in the dimly lit cooler of a room. Warm smile, and confiding, As he placed a jug on the shelf. I took the one at the front of the row, smiled back. They slid down; he placed another. Asked me if I was finding every thing I needed. No, dairy boy. There are a lot of things I need that I cannot find. But now I've found your co-conspiring eyes and face behind the milk, Now I think that might be everything I need, at least tonight./ There's a girl whose lips aren't sexy. But there is the way she holds them There, that strikes me. As though she were holding something very small between them. Not large enough to open her mouth, But just between her lips, delicately kept poised. I can see she is sensuously aware of it on her skin. The way she holds her lips as though the very small thing between them gave her some pleasure. I can see that she knows it's there, Has been keeping it there for some time. Maybe it is a word. Maybe it will fall off when she speaks. Maybe it is hello. Maybe she will say hello to me.