The mist continues to fall and once the sun disappears completely beyond the horizon the city is quickly cast in a thin veneer of ice. Walking towards the subway station I call her up in my mind, and the bone-chilling cold fades, becomes irrelevant. I’m bathed in warmth.

I can see her easily, cast in a pool of golden light on an overstuffed couch, much like the one in my own living room. Dressed in an elegant white robe, she has her bare legs curled beneath her, a book, Paradise Lost I believe it is, cradled in her arm. Her hair is unbound, flowing beyond the swell of her breast, hiding half of her face in a shimmering curtain as she reads.

I see a mug on the table beside the couch, steam rising lazily. Tea, I think, she’s reading a classic novel, drinking tea. So beautiful.  Without pause my mind adds: She’s alone, Dave. Just like you.

Before the thought passes fully through my mind she looks up from her book, staring into my soul. In that moment I know that I love her. I don’t know her, but I love her just the same. Her small knowing smile returns, playing about her lips and eyes, not quite chasing away the sadness. I hadn’t noticed that before, impossible from my office window so high up, but now, this close, I can see her sad eyes. I see them very well.

She lays the book down beside her tea, and slips a hand through her hair, pushing it back and away from her face, her robe pulls tight momentarily, the contours of her body beneath clearly visible, before loosening once again. The robe is left slightly more open than before, giving me a torturous glimpse of the firm flesh underneath. I reach forward to slip it from her body, but I can’t, I’m powerless.  I try to will her to open it, to let me see her, but she doesn’t. I’m a voyeur in my own mind.

What I can do is take her in, I cannot stop jumping from detail to detail, how her hair shines in the light, the way her legs are curled somehow cat-like and exquisitely femininely beneath her. I take note of where the robe ends time and time again, well above her bent knees. The hint of her right nipple, pressing against the robe peaking with each breath she takes. The pulse in her neck, beating steadily. The shell pink of the cup of her ear. The hollow at the base of her throat, I believe kissing her there would be like Communion. When I reach her eyes, they are the color of jade and their melancholy beauty again captures me.

She reaches slowly, sips carefully from the steaming mug. She picks up her book, flips it open and begins to read once again. I’m transfixed as she turns the pages, I watch as she idly twists a lock of hair in her free hand, I watch as she carefully takes another drink from her mug. Occasionally she looks over the pages of her book, as if to check if I am still there. I am. I’m drinking in every detail, committing her every move to memory.