Mate

I think I’m in love. It’s a real surprise for I’ve never thought that I’d go for his type, certainly haven’t in the past. But there he is sitting opposite, a computer on his lap, with his spruce grey hair, a beard and moustache to match, his glasses perched on the end of what can only be described as a Roman nose. A fetching checked shirt is visible underneath an accommodating fleece. A tasteful fleece, the sort you pull on over your head, leaving the small zip undone to allow air to circulate around your neck, his, a surprisingly unwrinkled and youthful neck.
I’m not bothered by his age. It’s his eyebrows that attract me in particular, the rise and fall as he reads messages from his iPhone, his mouth sweetly echoing amusement and pleasure. And despite the bristly visage, I think I’d like to kiss those lips.
Of course the clincher is the Apple logo. He has to be my mate, my Mac mate.

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