Aquaintence

Trouble began one evening as I sat at my quiet spot, transfixed in wonder over a worn copy of Paradise Lost. I was, indeed, far from the Garden of Eden.

Among my study I was annoyed to hear someone walk in and shuffle about, just noticeable enough to cause a distraction. Seldom did another soul enter this remote retreat, which happens to be the reason I had chosen it. The faint footsteps roved among the rows of books, meandering from one side of the room to the other, closer with each pass. They eventually appeared on the other side of the shelf from where I was sitting. Portions of her appeared between the books:

Tennis shoes, tall stockings, and long golden legs extending up to a short blue mini skirt.

I was not above a subtle glance before restoring my focus. After a few minutes she seemed to levitate to the end of the row and turned, slowly approaching. I buried myself into the pages and strained to remove her from my peripheral vision. Resistance was of little use. So irresistible was her figure that the words in front of me became scrambled and incomprehensible. I looked at the page as if observing the mysterious shapes of foreign characters. Still, not to appear inappropriate, I feigned concentration, not noticing her glide towards me.

I did not notice her even as she hovered precisely one foot beyond the end of my desk. She had turned to face the shelf, adjusted her glasses, and shifted her weight. I tried to resist but could not help admiring the shape of her lovely legs, the contour of her calves. Her body wrestled bitterly with the jumbled page, fully expecting her eyes to turn towards mine at any moment. Shame filled my consciousness as I considered that she had done nothing but stand in front of me. How depraved a human being that permits such normal, every-day sights to enslave his imagination. Nonetheless, little of the flesh before me was overlooked, a portion of her legs delightfully framed beneath such harmless pleats hanging from her hips. My glance would not dare approach her face, which was directed to her manuscript, obfuscated by her dark, wavy hair. Through no fault of my own I became a silent stalking predator, seduced by his meat.

Her innocent, casual demeanor suggested she was completely alone. I knew my powers of invisibility were not perfect, her warmth just inches from my senses. As I identified the lime scent of her shampoo I decided that she must have known the effect she was having. Yet, this stranger insisted she did not as she flipped through the pages, assuring me that I was nothing more than some guy sitting next to the book she required. It seemed that if my presence had been detected it could only be for the sake of navigation...in order to step around my legs as she left the room, head attached to her book. She continued to stand...right there. I became haunted by her closeness. She stepped back a couple inches and bent slightly to examine the shelf as I breathed her soft, tender flesh, now only inches away.

From my hypnotic state, lost in the poetry of Milton, I became equally lost in her essence. Her waist, back, and shoulders begged my eyes to assault them. They did, relentlessly. They washed over her elbows and her dainty shoes. No point was spared among the balance of her delicate frame. I contrived an absurd fantasy, as if this random girl was begging me to adore her. My heart began to pound faster, to my dismay, and the nagging pangs of an apparent delusional psychotic episode tingled within. I was bothered by them as a rat, admiring the mechanics of a deadly mouse trap, and with indulgence allowed them to dissolve.

She moved with apparent purpose as my mind undressed her, pealing her clothes easily from her body. She took a deep breath and placed the volume onto the shelf, then stretched her hands high over her head. I was an awful, dirty man. My abhorrent thoughts were inexcusable. Visceral shame and dread penetrated my mind as I languished over the ways I would destroy her innocence. I focused on the bottom of her skirt and my back slid down slightly in my chair. So close. So painfully close were her legs, which extended so high into the shadow between her legs.

She reached high to the top shelf and I marveled with the sliver of extra skin that appeared beneath her skirt. Shock and embarrassment filled my being as I became dedicated to relieve my curiosity. I lowered further as she momentarily arched her back to reveal the slightest hint of what the fabric was designed to protect. The instant was fleeting but enough to lock the unmistakable furry flesh as a still life in my occipital lobe. My eyes were saucers, still unable to discern, or even speculate, whether her behavior was in ignorance of my proximity, or because of it. I became frozen and terrified of either possibility.

She pulled the book from the shelf and held it under her right arm. My head became buried again as she walked past. I was certainly so concentrated in my reading that I could not have possibly seen her in front of me, or even noticed her arrival into the room. She turned to walk out of the door beside me and I elevated my head imperceptibly. Her eyes met the corner of mine in a fleeting glimpse as she disappeared. Her fingers, with long red nails, hung on the inside of the doorway for several seconds, then slowly drifted out of view.

What glimpse I achieved was enough for identification. It was Vanessa.