By Pauline Ketethya via fb
I take a picture of my guy as he walks out the bathroom door. Well, he’s not my guy but in my head, he is my guy. My perfect guy. He doesn’t know me, but I know him. He has never seen me, but I’ve seen him. Many times. Just like everyone else, he thinks he’s alone, but he is dead wrong. There’s always someone watching.
I watch him step out of the bathroom in a brown towel, tiny beads of water rolling down his body. He looks damn sexy and I just want to inhale him. His shoulders are broad, his chest wide and hairy. I don’t care if I slept on a bed of thorns with him next to me. If you hit him with a wooden chair, I bet the chair would break. As he dries himself off, I wonder how it would feel like to lie on that chest, to be caressed by those hands and to be kissed by those lips.
I’ve been watching him every day from my house, hiding closely behind the fold of the curtains.
I take another picture.
I have pictures of him sleeping on the couch, preparing dinner, talking over the phone, cleaning his house, standing by the window, eating, watching the TV, brushing his teeth…