I'VE SEEN HER so many times before. Only twice in person, but countless times more in the intimacy of our imaginary seclusion. She looks at me briefly and nature itself stalls at mid-breath. My pulse races uncontrollably as she stands and approaches.
She smells exactly the way paradise smells. I am consciously hording her scent, nearing complete hyperventilation, huffing my way to a heightened state of lustful euphoria, as she glides across the floor in a transcendent frame-by-frame motion.
She brushes my shoulder with her womanly hip while passing, saying not a word, and my spine explodes in a synaptic congruence of rapture.
Although the contact is purely a consequence of my purposeful situation, in a chair which obstructs her only path to the door, I allow myself to feel flattered by her touch.
It is the inevitable fate of my being that this very episode is the nearest our two bodies will ever be to one another. But the sadness of reality is insignificant next to my present contentment with fantasy.