Friday, 02 May 2014.
I saw her again today. She’s everywhere I look. Everywhere I go. I can’t escape her, and I’m not sure I want to.
I looked. Hell, yeah, I looked. I mean, I don’t think I stared at her. But I looked. I always look. Can’t help it. Have to look at her. She’s beautiful.
Oh, I know she’s fake. Hair ain’t that color naturally. Snow white, except for the six inches at the end, which is sky blue. Hair doesn’t grow that color. She makes it that color. I’ve never seen anyone with that kind of hair. The way it reaches down past her shoulders. Never a single hair out-of-place.
That’s how my eyes find her. I see her hair first. And then, the rest of her. All her curves. I have to look. And I have to find something to occupy my hands, so they don’t want to reach out to touch her. Gods, the stupid things I’ve looked at to keep my hands occupied. I don’t need a $200 network router. Or a MacBook Pro. Or another HDMI cable. I don’t need a three-pound bag of apples, or a box of Grape Nuts cereal. Jesus. Stupid hands.
I can’t help it. I know. She has the best curves I’ve ever seen. She ain’t one of them stick women, like in the magazines. A bean post with bumps. That’s what they are. A skeleton, wrapped in skin, with boobs and an ass glued on. They all look like that. All of them. Except her.
Where they’re all straight, she’s got curves. Graceful arcs. One part of her blends into another part, flows into another part. Every line, every arc, exactly what’s required. I’ve seen them all. The exquisite way her neck and shoulders blend, forming the perfect place to rest my hand. My fingers want to trace that curve. Feel the texture of her skin.
Her fingers. Lord. Her fingers. I have giant, crushing posts for fingers. Scars on them too. From the times I’ve drawn blood working in the yard, or on the house, or the car. I have ugly, utilitarian fingers.
Her fingers are everything mine aren’t. Slim, gentle, graceful. They look like they could carry roses, and not hurt them. Like they could heal a broken heart, gently stitching it back together. Never hurting it, always soothing its pain. My fingers want to slip between hers, and rest there. Find peace there. Find calm. Feel safe.
Yes, she has boobs. She’s a woman. But here’s aren’t overdone. She’s not all tits, and nothing else. Her’s are just right. That size between being not enough to notice, and “How does she keep from falling over?” The size I could rest my hands on. A perfect fit to the way my hands curve when I let them relax. I can’t help but see them. And I can’t help but know, there’s more to her. They’re just another part of her. They fit her. Like Mona Lisa’s smile.
She actually has hips. And a waist. I’ve watched her walk. The way her hips swing just enough left and right as she walks. Hypnotizing. The curves of her hips, and her buns. God. I can’t describe it. I’ve tried. I forget everything. Hell, I probably forget to breathe. I just watch her walk. I stare. I know it.
Yeah. I saw her again today. I hope I see her again tomorrow. Even though I’ll never talk to her. Never smile. Never say, “Hi.” She’s beautiful. A dream. A fantasy.
That one girl you can never have.
I think I’ll go to bed now. And bang the wife. And imagine it was her. Hey. What’s wrong with a little fantasy?