I knew he was nervous.
He sat next to me, close enough to show interest but still left room between us for question.
I imagined his hands were sweating by now.
I felt him looking only at my eyes while they were distracted.
He shuffled around in his seat, trying to find comfort in the situation.
I knew he was nervous.
He asked me questions we both knew he didn't care to have answers to.
He would clear his throat as if to rattle away more than a little phlegm, but maybe also some tension.
He would periodically take an inhale of the summer air, one that sounded purposeful,
anticipating to exhale not-so-hidden emotion but silence was all he could muster.
I knew he was nervous.
He rubbed his palms on the arch of his knees repeatedly while intently focusing his eyes on nothing.
We sat in silence until the big hand made a full lap around the face of its clock.
He sniffled and shifted and shrugged and suddenly stared at me.
He turned his lanky legs towards mine, our knees touching.
I knew he was nervous.
His eyes danced between mine and my lips for a few seconds, carefully planning his next move.
His elbow rested on the arm rest between us, he shifted his weight forward.
And then it happened.
I knew he was nervous.