I looked at her, sound asleep, the moonlight shining on her porcelain skin through a crack in the curtains. I didn't blame her for loving Othello. He was a good man, unlike some others I could mention. I certainly didn't blame Othello for loving her. How could I, when I felt the same way?
I envied Othello. He got to hold Desdemona, touch her flawless skin, kiss her full lips, and stroke her lustrous hair, while I could only gaze upon her, and dream of what might be. Dreams, I knew, that would never come true.
For a split second, I envied Desdemona, too. How come she and Othello were happy in their marriage, while neither Iago nor I were in ours? It could be worse, though. I supposed I should consider myself lucky. At best, Iago had for me a grudging respect, which was certainly more than he had for most people. He seemed to be quite preoccupied with Othello lately. I wondered why.
Desdemona tossed and sighed a little in her sleep. Her beautiful face was now turned toward me, her lips slightly parted. As I looked at them, an idea began to take shape in my mind. Did I dare?
I got up and moved toward the bed, treading slowly, softly, so as not to wake her. Bending down, I touched her face ever so lightly, and brushed her lips with my own. She didn't even move.
I withdrew to my own chamber and got into bed, but sleep wouldn't come. I kept thinking of how her lips had felt against mine, even though she hadn't kissed back. A sigh of longing bubbled up, and I didn't hold it back.
Everyone, it seemed, was cursed to want the very most what they could never have. I, apparently, was no exception.