It was growing late, and he had homework to do. But he had deliberately left his backpack in his car again.
He watched out his window; the parking lot outside his apartment was small and secluded, and currently it held only his car. The time to go to it and retrieve his books would come soon; he knew the schedule, had learned it from many other nights like this. He glanced at the green LEDs of the clock on his VCR. Just about now, in fact—
Yes! There it was, that pool of light cast by the headlights of a car, gradually filling the small parking lot. Seconds later, the all-too-familiar shape of the white car appeared; it turned, momentarily blinding him with the glare of its lights, and parked, one space away from his car. The door on its driver's side opened, and she emerged.
His heartbeat quickening, he counted slowly to five, then opened his apartment door and stepped out and walked to his car.
It was late in the fall; a moderately strong cool wind was blowing. The sound of the wind and the rustling of the dying leaves on the trees, coupled with the occasional distant car on the highway, filled his ears. It gave a lonely feeling to the scene; though he watched her as he walked, it felt as though he were the only person in the world.
Her dark hair was straight and loose today, barely brushing her shoulders as it danced lazily in the wind. She was wearing a plain brown shirt, its tight fit emphasizing her breasts, a pair of sandals, and a pair of capri jeans, also tight around her slender thighs and ass, suggestive of the perfect shape of both. Her exposed calves were a light brown, which he supposed was her natural skin color; she appeared to be Hispanic. A black handbag was carelessly slung across her shoulder; although it was not a large bag, she walked as if burdened by the weight of it. Her eyes remained on the ground as she walked to the door of the apartment next to his; she had a face that looked made for smiling, but there was no trace of a smile on her.
Please look up
, he pleaded silently.
Please, just this once, look at me
. He could not remember any time she had ever looked at him. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at about this time, she returned from wherever she went during the day, always with that same weariness about her. He wondered what caused it—a tedious class? A crappy service industry job? She gave no hint; she carried no books, wore no uniform, gave no sign save her downcast eyes and the weariness of her posture.
Just one instant, just one glance—that's all I need.
One instant of eye contact, and he could smile at her, wave, say hello, ask her about her day, ask her all the things about her life he had always wondered. Everything would be possible, if only she would look at him.
He opened his car and groped around for his bag, not wanting to shift his attention from her, fearful of missing the tiniest flicker of her eyes in his direction. She had arrived at her door. He held his breath; only a few moments remained before today's opportunity fell with all the others into the abyss of the past.
Please look at me
, he pleaded.
Please.
The moment passed. She opened her door and stepped inside, not looking at him.
He sighed, slammed his car door shut, and returned slowly to his small apartment.
It was a cheap studio apartment, a single area serving as living room, dining room, and bedroom. He dropped his bag on the tiny single bed and collapsed beside it, reflecting on the mystery of her, unable to even think about homework now.
He could see his reflection in the bathroom mirror from here. His was still a young face, topped by close-cropped black hair. He had recently started wearing contacts, which seemed to have made a definite improvement in the shape of his face. His skin was still pale; he had intended all summer to spend some time by the pool, but never had. He frowned and stripped off his shirt and inspected his chest; he was still far from the ideal physique, but he had started a workout program the previous year, and the results were at least beginning to show. He wasn't unattractive, he thought, not so much as he had been back in high school at least; surely that couldn't be the reason she never looked at him. He thought he almost had himself convinced of that.
He reached up and turned off the light, so that no one would be able to see in the single window, and pulled off the rest of his clothing. Naked, he began to stroke his skin, imagining it was her hands touching him, wishing it was her body his hands touched. He felt guilty to do this, to use the thought of her in this way, but what choice did he have? The pleasure of autoeroticism was the nearest thing he had to the sublime feeling of being with her in fact.
