Today, I realized that a ten-year-old has a crush on me. It is flattering, but feels kind of like being the fifty-something heavily-accented hit man in the movie The Professional would -- twelve-year-old Natalie Portman is hanging out in hot pants sending goo-goo eyes at you, and, while you're flattered, all you can do is clean your rifles and drink full pints of milk.
Okay, maybe not quite like that. But every time I walk by to check his workbook, Ravi -- who, as one of my English as a Second Language students, sounds like Antonio Banderas as Puss in Boots -- goes, "What are yooouuu doinn'?"
It's very distracting, but sort of charming, if it weren't vaguely creepy. I usually respond with something literal, like, "Making sure you've done your multiplication tables!". Still, he makes an effort to catch my eye whenever I'm on the other side of the room. Occasionally he winks. He's a very smooth, very Spanish sort of little man.
Really doesn't help that, being four feet tall, he's about eye level with my breasts.
In other news, this coffee shop should change its CD. I'm waiting for the day when the Polish employee goes crazy and pulls out a Kalashnikov.
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