Peter Steele, sounds like a porn star's name, I thought giggling to myself. I'm alone in the darkness of a forgotten alley waiting. Waiting for you to take your usual shortcut home from the bars down this abandoned side street that the poor and desperate won't even go near. I've been waiting for weeks for a chance alone with you; and if nothing else, I AM a patient person.
In the distance I hear an ambulance siren screaming as it faces frantically to its next stop and I wait. I must have nodded off propped up against the alley wall because I'm startled out of a half sleep by the sound of footsteps nearby. I check my watch; it's 3:48 a.m. I feel a chill run up my spine that has nothing to do with the 50° weather and everything to do with the unmistakable sound of your footsteps.
I try to draw a steadying breath to clam my nerves. It comes and goes as a poor, ragged attempt that you obviously heard because you stop suddenly in the alley looking around cautiously. If you ask "Who's there?" I swear I'll...Well, I don't know what I'll do but this just wouldn't be you. We both know it.
You cock your head a little to the side trying to figure out what you heard if anything. A small self-mocking smile forms on your sensuous full mouth as you come to the faulty conclusion that it was just your imagination working overtime. I stay in the deep shadow that clings to my body shielding me from discovery. You pass by smelling of beer, too much smoke, and some cheap knock-off perfume. My knees weaken at the sight of you again.
Your long black hair restrained in a ponytail hangs down the back of a well-worn green military jacket. Your long legs, encased in faded, ripped jeans, stride down the alley not as surely as they had on previous trips that I had watched you. Your black leather combat boots make a muffled sound as you ease your way cat-like through the alley. I caught a quick look at the green and black T-shirt you're wearing; it's my favorite. It fits your body like a glove, revealing broad shoulders, well-defined pecs, a concave stomach. You had been ill lately, withdrawing from society and the limelight. It showed in the gauntness of your face, the darkness under your eyes, and the new lines etched between your nose and mouth. THAT MOUTH!
I gather my courage and push off from the wall; I follow. My footsteps went unheard by you as you start to whistle a tuneless melody. We're blocks from the alley and you're not leading me to your home. It's as if you're looking for something that can only be found in the darkest, stillest part of the night. Are you looking for me? Would you recognize me for who I am or simply as a near-mirror image of yourself?
Where your long black hair is straight and confined, mine is slightly wavy and loose flowing down the back of my Marlboro jean jacket. Where your eyes shine with an almost otherworldly pure green, mine are flecked with amber and topaz and rimmed in a blue-gray. My lips are full and sensuous too, but riddled with nervous teeth marks and tinged blue from waiting in the cold. My high cheekbones, winged eyebrows, and strong jaw do not make me pretty, but men look twice. I too have broad shoulders, but my collarbones stand out in relief and my heather gray T-shirt clings to my 36C chest like a second skin. At 6' 7" you may have a foot on me but I'm well proportioned and my long denim-clad legs start above dainty feet shod in black shit kickers and end at my womanly hips and curvaceous ass.
