His hair – always accurate and well groomed.
The wrinkles that cross his forehead - like a map of his feelings, sorrows and pain.
But his forehead also mirrors his stubbornness, his willpower, his intelligence.
He may not be as well educated as other agents, no doctor's degree, no Ivy League university.
But he is smart and perceptive and he has a mind of his own. As an investigator,
I guess his common sense and his ability to see the essentials of things and
circumstances are his biggest qualities.
His eyes – in the end, it is always his eyes that draw me towards him.
They seem to pierce right through me, I am absolutely positive that he can read my every
thought with those eyes of his. Although, most of the time, it feels like he doesn't even see me
for who I am – for what I want to be for him. Sometimes, when we stand close together and
he flashes me a look, I feel the butterflies in my stomach – as a matter of fact, it
happens every time in those situations.
Actually I am glad, that it is his eyes, that I love the most about his physical assets.
Because they do not change, they do not age – don't call me superficial, I know, I age, too,
my body changes – always for the worse, never for the better. But this is how I feel, these
are my thoughts. And I fancy his ageless, piercing steel blue eyes.
The sharp features of his face – his flawless skin tautened over his jawline – like silk,
tautened over some steel girder. His shaving is always perfection – I wonder how long he
takes every morning to ensure that. His lips – slim. Manly. Yet I know, that they can be soft and
tentative. I treasure that knowledge. I treasure the memory. It is not what you think – he once
gave me a kiss on the cheek, a thank-you-kiss. For just being me. Yeah. Right.
His smell is a mixture of simple soap, detergent (I am convinced it is Tide – a classic, like himself)
and his own unique smell. Even though I have to admit, that his own smell is very discreet, almost
neutral, even when he is sweating heavily. You have to be really close to him, to even notice anything.
His body – I happen to know that he is blessed with his genes. The silky skin that covers
his face covers his whole body. He is lean, well trained, slightly tanned, almost no body hair.
I know that for a fact- again, it is not as you would think. Nah. I saw pictures of his bruised body,
his calves, his thighs, his hips and chest. I know, it is absolutely inappropriate to drool over
evidence pictures when your partner gets beaten up that bad. But I have to take what I can get.
Dammit, even his ex-wife thinks we'd make a good match. That is at least, what I was told.
I go to a waxing studio, every couple of weeks to always look nice beneath – in case he ever
shows only the slightest interest in me. It is hope that makes me do this. I touch myself, the
soft hairless skin and imagine it is him. I would die to know, what he thinks about that.
I fantasize about him, I imagine him being with me, in my apartment, sharing his evenings
with me. I dress nicely, even when he is not around, just in case he decides to drop in.
Hope is a bitch.
I know, that fantasies are like soap bubbles – I know, reality is never as good as any fantasy.
But I would gladly take that reality, if I ever get the chance. Having fights over dirty laundry
on the floor or unhealthy food, about presidential candidates or religion, about not having
taken out the garbage or having spent too much money on some high tech TV set.
I love watching TV.
But for now, I have no one to fight with.
I have no one to watch TV with.
I have no one to share my bed with.
All I have is – hope.