She who is completely unaware of my stare sits silently in that same chair. As I study the curve of her neck, the tilt of her head, the way her fingers caress the spine of the book in her hand, I realise it is the same routine I continue to indulge in every time she sits in that spot. Under my fingertips, the wood of my desk is familiar, comforting. Nothing like what she does to me. When she's near, the feeling of uncertainty creeps up on me, and I find my wit slower, my tongue clumsier. Bracing my hands on the desk is all I can do to stop myself from going mad.
And to all this, she is completely oblivious. To my discomfort, to my mind racing with thoughts of her, to my obvious disposition and fascination with her. Concentrated solely on the story she is reading, she licks her bottom lip and bites it slightly, much to my desire's displeasure and pleasure. Somehow, she doesn't even need to touch me to make me long for her.
How?
How is it that someone who has delved so deep into my past without even trying, someone I never intended to let in, has managed to entwine herself throughout my whole being, my whole existence? I drop my gaze to the report I started over an hour ago but have made no progress on as she shifts in her seat. But she changes her mind, reaching out behind her, fingertips stretching for the tea cup on the side. Her eyes try desperately not to tear away from what is surely an interesting read. But her fingers only manage to brush the cup's rim, making me shiver involuntarily, uncontrollably, as I watch her from under my brow.
Then she sets the book down carefully and turns fully, taking the cup in her hands, pressing the rim to her lips so tenderly. She barely notices me watching her sipping at her tea. At least this way, when she comes and curls up at the end of the sofa in my office, slips her shoes off and draws her knees up close to her chest, I can be safe in the knowledge she has no idea of the yearning looks I give her.
Every part of her is special, from her lustrous hair and irresistible dimples right down to her toes, which are wrapped up warm in thick blue socks to keep them warm. Her thoughtfulness for such details is completely ordinary but for some reason, she manages to make it seem like so much more. I seem to have memorized everything about her and it drives me to the point where I cannot sleep at night for the image of her I hold in my head. It makes me wonder. Does she know?
How she torments me so, just by breathing?
How her seemingly unrecognized beauty is all I seem to think about?
How I cannot imagine letting her go?
Her eyes finally meet mine and, before I have the chance to pretend I wasn't gaping at her like a lovesick fool, that stunning smile lifts her dimples. Then she goes back to reading, the smile still slight on her soft features. Her fingers drum the hard black cover of her book and it's then that I know.
I thought I wanted more.
But now I know.
It's enough to be with her. Just to be near her. With her.
It's enough to be with him. Just to be near him. With him.
It's often just enough to be with someone. You don't need to touch them. Not even talk. A feeling passes between you both. You're not alone.
~ Marilyn Monroe