There she sits, with coffee. Entranced.
Form symbiotic with her passion, the book.
The beauty of her aura coming from that abstracted universe nestled safely in loving hands – to me it is almost flirtatious.
Oblivious to the world, she does not notice me observing;
the delicate way the page is held, poised for turning.
Time slows as the leaf nonchalantly hovers, before the abrupt snapping back into time by the crisp, concise turning.
Her flagrant eroticism permeates.
Over time, I am witness to the slow changing of her features, a furrowing of the brow, like the transition from sun to sudden squall on a summer’s day.
The subtle hunch of the shoulders as if trying to physically become one with the story and it’s participants.
A slight changing of position, the reclining of her head to ponder upon subjects unknown to me.
Eyes unfocused yet fully concentrated.
The need to quiz without compromising her pure and simple pleasure becomes the torture with which I afflict myself.
A form of magical utopia to my biased eyes.
* I would like to say that this is a purely fictitious work and I do not stare at women in public or indeed private places, mainly on account that nobody seems to read around here and secondly and more importantly I do not wish to gain stalker status.