Slowly and somewhat reluctantly, she had slid her hand into her panties. It had been even wetter than earlier. She had stroked her lips, inside her lips, her clit, her opening. She had felt very warm and floaty. Just as she was establishing a rhythm, he had then told her to go to the window. “Why,” she had asked. “For excitement,” he had said. She had known what he would ask next. She was not going to stand with a thin t-shirt and wet panties at her living room window. She had pulled on a hoodie that came down to her thighs and slowly walked to the window. It had been still been light out and she could see the yard in front of her apartment. There was a bar across the street and people were outside of the bar smoking mainly men. “Touch yourself,” he had said. She had looked at the men on the sidewalk. Slowly she had put her hand underneath the bottom of the hoodie. Eventually, she had slid her hand onto her panties. They had been wet not just damp. She had then started to. To stroke her cheek. To part her hair with my fingers. To let her eyes open. To see me. To see what He wanted, what He took, what I let Him have. Her, all alone now. Her, in her big empty house. Her without Him. Him without me. I want her to know. To share me. I want her to see me; me, as I am. The me He made me.I blow so gently into her nose, her gently-tilted nose that must have captivated him when he was at Medical School. Her sweet, girlish nose. I blow so gently it could be a breeze through the early-budding trees that sway in the darkness outside. She opens her mouth. Her tongue grazes her lips. Her eyes will stay closed, but she will see me now. I pass my hand, my wounded hand, through her face. She will see me now. I can imagine her eyes. Her bright blue eyes. Open beneath their shading lids. Wide open, staring at me. Staring at me as I arch my body over her. Staring at me. Her mouth open, her breathing faster. Staring at me.And I stare back at her. I smile at her with my.
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