Maria

I know if I look at her long enough she’ll look up.

There is a tantalising gap located between the buttons of her crisp white shirt which reveals the pale flesh just below her breasts. She is engrossed. She is engrossed in Carol I. Her dark glossy hair is carefully swept from right to left, shoulder length and scooped behind her petit shells to present a faultless face. Dark flickering lashes, deep brown eyes and red lips complete the look. The captivation. Sleeping faces may be superior like resting mountains but one in trance is the tracing of a butterfly in garden. She wears cool beige ankle length boots and black clipping suit trousers with crossed legs. I like the look. Defined like a street. It is the look of refined individualism, tidy bohemia, attractive in its unassuming architecture.

I dare not look, I bare not look at her opening, it is too much for here on a train, at home yes but one’s eyes should be more restrained under prying eyes you must understand. After all, one never knows who is looking.

I am going to call her Maria. She hasn’t looked up once since I boarded such is her intellect and alas my unworthiness, yet I still dare not to even glance for if our eyes may meet then BOOM! I will be done. She will have caught thee in the act and shame floods into thy face like lamb’s blood.

There must be a particle which leaves our eyes and the mind of whom we are looking at detects, for it surely can not be mere coincidence when a person turns around or glances up when someone else is looking at them. It simply can not be.

Maria can not be. I must follow.