Watch Me

Do you even realize that how beautiful you are? I can’t help but stare most nights as you stand near the mirror and brush your long blond hair so that it shimmers like sunbeams on a July afternoon. I watch, counting with you as you move the brush gently through those strands of gold.1

Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five. 2

How can you not see yourself the way I see you? I frown as you quietly poke at some imagined bit of fat around your waist, upset as your forehead puckers in concentration as you lean and twist as if searching the mirror for some perfect part of yourself. Only you are already perfect in my eyes. Your breasts are still firm even at your age, and the nipples tighten easily in the chilly air, darling mauve colored caps that stand out begging for my touch. Your hips are slim, perfect for the span of my hands. I sigh in relief as you flex calves tight and muscular from all the miles you run early in the morning. Your body is a temple to me, and I want to spend the rest of my life worshipping you. 3

My eyes are slaves to your beauty, following you around the bedroom where you feel the most protected, where you feel the most at ease. This room is my favorite to watch you in, and I can’t help but spend hours doing that. I watch as you get ready for work, or for an evening out. I can’t help but sigh in pleasure as you strip quietly, teasing me with your casual movements. I ache to feel you, to touch the pearly skin you reveal in tantalizing slowness. And the way you dress, in that same practiced ease that makes me groan good-naturedly. You seem to love to tease me, and I know that you will enjoy it when the teasing is finally over. 4

The days pool together in my homage of your angelic face, of your temptress body. Your large blue eyes are like the river of memories that haunt me when I can’t see them. The trimmed hair at the juncture of your legs whispers secrets to me in a language that I don’t know but am sure I could make my tongue speak. Everything about you makes me love you more. Your dimples that only pop out when you laugh out loud while on the phone. Your firm buttocks that undulate as you glide around the bed to the closet. Even your ears, which might be just a little pointed for most tastes, are pink pearls for me to spill my desires into. I can’t help but watch you, my darling. You were made for me and I can’t help but love you. 5

Tonight is different; the air has a different feel, a different taste. I am late and you’re already out of the shower when I get a chance to see you. You movements are frenzied and clipped, and you’re smoking though you had quit months ago; a fact I celebrated when I watched you throw the last pack into the trash. I frown, which you seem to ignore and start to trash the room by throwing things out of the closet. I watched as you select, and then reject, articles of clothing that always remind me of the sprinkles of a delicious cupcake; not necessary but definitely appreciated. How can you not find anything in there that makes you feel like the sexy goddess you are? How can you not see that you are the epitome of fleshly desires and heart wishes? How can you not see that you are my everything in this world? 6

“Shh, darling, shh,” I murmur softly. “What has you so upset?” An angel should never stress and it bothers me that something is bothering you. Who would dare heap anything worrisome on those perfect creamy shoulders? I would hurt them if it would help you. I would do anything for you. 7

Something in you seems to settle and you finally decide on your outfit. I moan in easy frustration as you slip on white lace thong panties, the color a shade or so paler than the perfect halves of your ass. I watch you as you slide on the matching bra, encasing those giant globes into sweetly sexy lace. I can feel saliva pool in my mouth as you push my desires to the very edge as you slip into a light blue silk dress that leaves your back open to the air and barely hits your muscled thighs. Ravishing, simply ravishing. God, you are nearly too perfect to leave the house. There are really bad people out there, men who’d see you and think thoughts that only I should think of you. You should be careful, my darling. You should really be careful. 8

Your phone rings, shattering my angry thoughts over the men that would disrespect you. The news, whatever it is, makes you smile in that dazzling way that melts my stress. My eyes stalk you as you hang up and you snap off the lights. I move easily, knowing the layout of the house as well as you do. At the front door is a man…9

A man. 10

A man I don’t recognize, a man that is shifting nervously. I have to duck behind the large elm at the edge of the house so that I can see him better. Clean cut, dressed to impress in a suit that I would never be able to afford. Who is he? What did he want? He had to be at the wrong house, he had to be at the wrong door! You are my darling, mine! Who is this man? I watch as you open the door and accept the flowers with a smile that should be for me, which you share with me. I stare in horror as he escorts you to a car that I envy because it will hold you closer than I ever could. 11

As you leave together I can feel the rage burn inside of me. How could you? How could you choose him when I have loved you for so long? Who watches you every day? Who stands close to you at the store or at the gym just to catch a whiff of your hair? Who had flowers delivered everyday until your office started to turn them away? Who knew how long you showered on Thursdays because you wanted to watch Lost? Who checked your doors and windows every day to make sure you are safe? Me. Me, the man that has loved you since you first moved into our neighborhood six months ago. 12

I remember that day. I re-lived it every night when I laid down to sleep. You had no one to help you move in and it was raining. I moved your couch and you smiled and offered me some money. I declined, unable to speak because your beauty was washing over me in heart stopping waves. You had touched my arm and called me your special helper. I stood there stammering, waiting for you to ask me for anything, anything at all but then my mom had called me home. Since then, you always had a wave and a smile for me, always remembered my name and called out to me when you drove past me. You are my angel, my darling, my dream.13

So how could you? How could you be with some one else when you know we belong together? Because I am angry with you I don’t feel too bad when I break the back door’s glass. I let myself in and go to your room. I can smell you everywhere. I can nearly sense you in each wall, each carpet fiber, in each shadow. In the kitchen I find your butcher block and slowly slide out a wicked blade. I sit on your couch with your knife, loving the look of the moon bouncing of the curved steel. I open the bottles of soaps and shampoos in your bath room. I trail my hand down the walls as I go through the house. I slow down once I get to your room, my anger leaving me as I stepped over an invisible boundary into a place that I have only ever seen from the outside. I go through the drawers loving the feel of your silks and laces against my skin. But I can’t get lost in the feeling, I can’t lose focus this time. 14

I cover up any evidence that I was here and then crawl into your closet. I sit with your knife, in your closet, and do what I have been doing best for the last six months. 15

I wait. 16

And I watch.17