Call me Ahab.

She makes me nervous. Just being in the same room other women disappear and there's one set of eyes that watch me without looking, peering past my defense, my facade. It makes me uncomfortable, knowing that there's someone like that. Someone who knows so completely that she has my number and takes such delight in it.

Her eyes are really what do it. Kind, yet malevolent. The eyes that the mouse sees right before the pounce. I stare into them and I'm captured, rapt in my spot, unable to think or talk or act. There's only the butterflies in my stomach and the cotton in my mouth. There's a billion nerves firing at once, out of control. I can see everything happening around me but nothing except her is in focus.

My friends think it's just that she's good looking. Beautiful. Hot. Yes, she is. Her lips make you want to believe every word that passes between them. To kiss them would be the kiss all other kisses were practice for. Her hair, her figure, her hips, her breasts – all defy description. A muse would need her own muse just to try. All this I know, I can see, but it's her eyes that make me weak in the knees.

Her eyes, when she looks in yours, tell you that she knows something that you don't, something about you that you've never even considered. It's the type of look that makes you forget about everything else, everyone else but her. Knowing full well that she could be your demise, the obsession that will lead to your downfall, you let the flirtation drag on. You let it drag on because in those moments –in those looks– you feel drugged, you feel alive, you feel.

A white shark is like a white whale, except the shark hunts you instead.