Something from twelve years ago…
I catch sight of her as she emerges from the shower and pause to admire her lean coffee-coloured curves. She is the very essence of vigour, has the grace of a woman who knows herself to be beautiful, and I feel the first stirrings of desire as my eyes devour the voluptuous perfection of her breasts. They rise and fall with her breath, and tremor with the beating of her heart, and naked and serene as she stands there they seem as an offering to me.
Her hazel eyes fasten on mine, and for a moment I am all dizzy. She shows no surprise at my presence, no offence at my voyeurism. Her eyes reflect only my desire for her, and smiling slyly she lifts her breasts to reveal how flawless the surgery was. We share a smile of conspiracy. I have told no one of my love for this woman. Only in my home do we have the freedom to be together. I like to watch as she brushes her long, raven hair, and at night, in bed, I spend hours gazing at her. But during the day I must be more circumspect, must content myself with hurried glimpses – I know where to look for her – and the occasional shared, secret smile. From time to time I see her touching up her make-up, but I dare not observe too closely lest my love for her should show.
She wraps a large white towel about herself, and coils its shorter companion about her lustrous wet hair. Even concealed thus she is a beautiful woman, and as she smiles warmly at me I feel compelled to kiss her. She moves to meet me, but at the last instant our lips are stopped by the cold glass of the mirror.