You do not know me. You never set eyes on me. Every Wednesday afternoon, at 4 pm, you take your young son to a guitar lesson that takes place in my building, Moore Street. A few months ago I was working at my office when I saw you in the waiting room. From my home, I have a view over this small room. I see parades, grandparents, babysitters waiting patiently.
How not to notice you? You are long, dark, you do not wear any makeup (you do not need it), your skin is splendid. When I looked at you for the first time, you were dreaming, eyes lost to the window.
You could not imagine anyone watching you with such attention. I had to put my pen to get close to the window, while being careful not to reveal my presence. What were you thinking? You looked both sad and dreamy. You wore a pencil skirt that revealed your golden calves. Your hands on your thighs were fine and delicate, you were wearing an alliance. You were alone in this waiting room, and alone in front of my eyes that devoured you without your knowledge. I could not help but let myself go to an exquisite excitement. I could see myself in front of you kneeling, slowly kissing, then licking this smooth skin, going up your legs with my mouth. The following week, you read a novel by Patrick Modiano. Your hair was tied. You were alone in the world with your book. Once you looked up at the curtains, as if you felt that I was there, behind, and that I was watching you, as though you had caught the heat that was coming from me. I could not guess the color of your eyes, but they seemed hazel.
I once again felt this violent desire. There's something about you that triggers that in me, right away, and I can not explain it to you. I was burning to undress you, gently, taking my time, going crazy. Yes, I wanted to make you mad with desire. I imagined the hollow of your loins. The sweetness of your belly. The roundness of your buttocks. The tips of your hard boobs under my tongue. Impossible to concentrate on anything else. Unable to return to my work table. Your languor, your sensuality, obsessed me. Every Wednesday I was watching for your arrival. It was almost as if I had an appointment with you. Except you did not know. I would have liked to feel your perfume. I'm so sensitive to odors. I wanted to breathe in yours, to get drunk. That of your neck, under your hair. That of your wrists and your palms. That of your privacy.
One Wednesday I heard your voice. Your cell phone rang. You answered. A rather serious voice. I did not expect that. You came to lean on the windowsill, and you turned towards the yard, toward me. You reiterated that no, it was "not possible". You said « no, no, no », you were firm, almost threatening. You hung up. Then, immediately afterwards, you dialed a number. You have your own name: Regina Mills. It suited you so well, that name. And it was easy to find you on Instagram. Your page was not private. Anyone could delight in your adorable images. I do not want you to be afraid of me. Far be it from me to spy on you, to establish an unhealthy connection. No, I admired you, that was all. You had become my Instagram, you had posted pictures of your vacation, with a little boy and your husband. But I had eyes only for you in a pink bikini tea. A large straw hat. This beautiful body, loose and supple, which I detailed in holding my breath. This little tattoo in the hollow of your wrist. A feather, it seems to me. I wanted to embrace that feather. I wanted to feel you tremble under my lips.
I would never have dared to write you this letter if there had not been the scene last Wednesday. You had come to the music class accompanied by your husband. I saw him for the first time in real life, this man. The one who made love to you. The one who gave you a child. The one you should love. A big rather elegant type. I imagined your life as a couple, the conjugal bed. Did that man make you enjoy? I imagined him plunging between your open thighs, doing all the gestures I dreamed of doing. Jealousy seized me. I hated him, your husband. I hated him. The window was closed, but I could immediately feel the animosity between you. His gaze was disdainful, sly. Yours, exasperated. You got carried away, I saw. I followed each of your gestures carefully. Fascination won me. You seemed to accuse him of something, the finger pointed at him. He shrugged his shoulders. He even turned his back on you. Your face was closed, your mouth aggressive. I do not know if it was you who ordered him to leave, but he went off at once with an angry gesture. You stood with your arms crossed, your neck stiff. You have not collapsed. You looked alone. So alone. So pretty. At that moment I decided to write to you. I do not know anything about you, madam. Nothing of your life. I've been wanting you for three months. You may be throwing that letter away. Refuse to meet me. Never mind. I take this risk. I can not stay without doing anything. I entrust this letter to your attention to the professor of music. I will tell her: it is for the young woman with brown hair, the mother of the little boy who comes at 4 pm every Wednesday. Regina Mills.
I imagine you are reading this letter. I imagine your stupor. I've been watching you for weeks, months. For months I see myself making love to on, Madam. Fourth floor, right door. I'm waiting for you. I'm feverish. I am in an impossible state. I want to carry you, make you vibrate in my own way. I want to give you immense pleasure. How? I will tell you exactly. At first you will be leaning against the wall of my room. I will be behind you at your feet. I'll caress you with my fingers, my tongue. I shall be nothing but sweetness, velvet, voluptuousness. I will not go too fast. I will let your desire settle down, grow, you will be drunk. Then I'll lie down on my bed. I'll take you in my own way. I will invest you. I'll make you mine. I would like to hear you say yes. To say yes, to me, just to me. I would like to hear this grave and firm voice crack in the hollow of my ears. I would like to hear him grow hoarse. You will look straight into my eyes. I would like you to be able to measure the senseless effect you are making do not need to talk to each other. I have nothing to say to you except that you are beautiful and I want you so much that it wakes me up at night. Oh, madam, I'm waiting for you. Give me an hour of your time. An hour of pleasure. I'll leave the door ajar. Go up, madam. I'm waiting for you. In the mirror, I see myself. I took off my clothes. I do not carry anything anymore. My body is naked, it is naked for you. I find him beautiful in this expectation. I wait for your hands on me. I'm waiting for your greed. I suppose you're going to ask the music teacher "who lives on the fourth floor, right door?" She will no doubt tell you with a sincere smile that I am young, that I work in publishing, that I love music and I am a charming person. And she will probably pronounce my first name.
She will say, "Emma."
I'm French, so don't hesitate to give me your opinion about my translation.