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See, I watched her because she had something I wanted and couldn't have. She had a little kid who loved her, who thought she hung the moon and stars, who could take all her worries away with a simple laugh or smile.
And I watched him because he was another thing that I wanted and couldn't have.
A man.
Love.
Affection.
Companionship.
Sex.
A relationship.
Of course, there was also the fact that he was simply immensely watchable- being the living, breathing, walking, talking equivalent of some statue come to life.
He was beautiful.
Handsome.
Perfect, really.
He had strong, masculine features with his chiseled jaw, stern brow ridge, and strong, but not oversized, nose. His hair was black and perfectly cut whenever I saw him, like he never missed a barber appointment. His face was clean shaven most of the time, though I would occasionally catch him a little scruffy, a look I found particularly appealing on his serious face.
Then, oh yeah, there were the eyes. He had these light, piercing, impossibly gorgeous blue eyes.
And he always had a suit on.
Well, not always.
Three mornings a week, he left early in the morning, so early that the sun was barely up, in black basketball shorts and a tight tee, his iPod in a holder on his bicep and would come back all sweaty from his run. And on Wednesdays, he would come home in the evening in gym clothes.
But literally any other time I had seen him, he was in a suit. And he filled them out really well.
So I watched him come and go.
He had a nice car. A really nice car to go along with his really nice suits and his really nice watches that he still used to check the time on instead of his cell; it was an old-fashioned little trait I found immensely appealing for some reason. The car was new and sleek and black and while I couldn't hear it because the windows in my living room didn't open, I just knew it didn't roar, it purred.
Speaking of purring, Rocky had just hopped up on my white mail table just inside the door, knocking off a pile of carefully organized bills in the process, and rubbing his head into my arm.
"Hey, Mr. Rochester," I said, exhaling so hard that I would swear it was a sigh as I reached out to pet his little flat orange face. As a Persian, he perpetually looked grumpy. It went with his character and his name that he in fact was perpetually in a bad mood. "You hungry?" I asked, taking his head butt as a yes as I turned away from my door.
The day before, he had said 'hey' to me.
And I about had a stroke.
See, I wasn't a freak. Until about two years before, I was a pretty normal person who had normal interactions with people (men included). I even dated and had relationships. Granted, I was always a bit on the anxious side and ran toward shy in social situations and especially in the presence of the opposite sex, but I interacted with them on a pretty daily basis.
But ever since two years before, the only men I ever spoke to were my uncle, Bry, and his partner Carl. That was it.
So my reaction was, well, just surprise I guess.
He talked to me, in that perfect deep, smooth, shiver-inducing voice of his.
And I had made a right fool of myself.
Because that was just par for the course in my life.
It shouldn't have mattered. It wasn't like it was ever going to happen again. He had moved in a year before and that was the first time he had ever attempted conversation. The chances that he would again, especially after such an idiotic display, were slim to none.
But it still mattered.
It was just yet another thing to feel shitty about myself over. I was good at that. The overthinking, overanalyzing, over-everything-ing.
That was my specialty.
Well, that and learning how to do literally everything I needed to do from the comfort of my prison. I mean, apartment. Apartment.
It was a nice apartment too. I had spent a lot of time trying to get it to the perfect comfort-level for myself. That meant that it was generally very bright and airy. The walls were a very light sage green and I had nothing on the windows except white sheers so the sunlight could stream in from everywhere. All the wood in the space was white, from the kitchen cabinets to my coffee table and TV stand. My couch was patch-work style, all different patterns, but all the colors a bit muted, nothing loud, nothing overwhelming.
I used to like bold.
My old apartment had been a mismatch of different colors and styles and artwork and craziness. Beaded doors here, bright red walls there, huge canvas art everywhere. Nothing matched, but somehow it always worked. My clothes were always strewn about and my dishes perpetually undone.
