You fantasized about her last night.
Fair soft skin, unblemished, flawless.
Her perfect curves, her carved lips, her hair of silk and its smell.
The mere thought of touching her makes you smile and scream.
But all you can reach is a glimpse every morning when you see her on the bus, on the way to work; only this shared glimpse when your eyes lock with hers for a millisecond.
All day she unflinchingly types all the papers handed to her. Such beauty wasted on stenography.
If only the fire alarm goes off.
If only you can brush by her body in the bustle of evacuation.
If only she walks down that narrow hallway which barely fits two people so that you can feel her arm touch yours.
If only amidst the rush, the impatient bitter old man who works in the cubicle next to yours pushes you in his frustration and she happens to be right in front of you so that you can feel her flesh upon your thighs if not hands.
But you promise you won’t grope or caress or smile or breathe too vehemently or apologize for it. You promise you will have her for that moment, you will just have her for yourself.
You wait every day till she leaves the building and then follow precariously as you watch her walk and – oh how she walks – back home. Her long skirt ripples with every step and you crave that dance.
She’s wearing that skirt today.
You can hear the loud, ceaseless clicks of her typewriter all the way across the room.
And suddenly it stops.
The room is strangely silent.
The fire alarm goes off.