“I’m just being delusional,” I tell myself as I watch him go on and on about the liver.

He’s wearing his native again. Green this time.

I watch him speak with the other lecturers, and then I notice it—

a green watch on his wrist.

Matching.

I smile to myself.

As he speaks, he brushes a hand against his chest. His not-so-fancy sandals catch my eye, a strange little contradiction to everything else he’s wearing—and somehow, to his eloquence.

I watch him a little longer than I should.

Only if I could marry this man.

I know we’d never wear matching clothes. I’d gag if he ever suggested it. We’d probably argue about something ridiculous, then talk until we forgot what we were arguing about.

I know we’d never run out of things to talk about.

I know we’d never go to bed angry.

I know we’d never happen.

And yet, there I am, watching him explain the liver as though he has personally discovered it.

He moves from one point to another, making connections that seem so obvious once he explains them.

I listen.

Or at least, I tell myself I’m listening.

Because somewhere between the liver and whatever point he’s making now, I start wondering how many other things he knows.

How many conversations could we have?

What would it be like to sit across from him and not have to pretend I wasn't interested?

I look away.

Enough.

I’m just being delusional.