She is fluidity—it’s there, in the roll of her hips and the flick of her wrists. He shifts closer, closer, closer until his nose brushes the cold glass pane. He’ll leave a stain there, a memory. Hand to the window: fingertips. Another memory, another signal of his devotion. More discreet than the flowers he delivers to the studio every week. She’s allergic to daisies, so he chose roses on Monday. He personally plucked them from the garden in her front yard, careful to snip off thorns.
His eyes skim the room. No one matches her skill. No one moves so weightlessly. Her gossamer skirt wraps around her hips when she dips and turns. He stands, memorized, in the face of her beauty. She straightens her right leg, strikes out, tangles amid her voluminous skirt. She trips, falling to the ground with a sheepish expression. One of the male dancers glides over and draws her up against his thin body.
No.
He meets her gaze over the shoulder of the dancer; her lips tip in an uncertain smile. He’s waited over a year for the recognition in her eyes. . . But this is not the time.
He’ll possess her one day. There must never be a distance—his father taught him that. His relationship with her now does not suggest intimacy, a tendril of connection that sways with the circumstances but never severs, because it is too early still. He must continue to woo her.
He knows the exact moment she sees his present by the front door. A bouquet of roses, freshly picked that morning, tied with a white satin bow. Her hand steals over the flower, stroking her fingers against the soft petal. She never suspects.
He turns on his heel. He has many things to do today, starting with the preparation of her dinner in her apartment, 3B.
Being her landlord has a multitude of perks, but this, this fascination with her is certainly the most thrilling.
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