And watching a man quietly from across the bar might sounds boring to you.

You wouldn't understand how it feels like to creep around when he's in the middle of the function, surrounded by his colleagues and his wife is in his arm, hugging his waist. You wouldn't understand the electric feeling of us holding gaze when his woman's not looking.

You wouldn't understand about accidental elbow brushes, or longing glances, or shy smiles hidden behind unused napkins. You wouldn't be able to taste the thick air, damp of his cologne.

His woman's chatting with another sergeant's wife, excited about something. He blows his smoke and leaned his head back, the little curl of his hair falls like domino, his chest heaved in rhythm with his cig.

And I was mesmerized, a ballroom away. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. My blood runs coal when he shifts his chin ever so slightly to my direction, his fingers tapping ashes to the plate, and our eyes met for the first time. And it already feels like a kiss.

And I know that his love's never mine to keep. Maybe the money, perhaps some time, but never the god-willed love or the baby. I will just be a change of routine. A notch in his belt. Another little secret to keep, to be disposed when he no longer benefit.

But God, he is electric.