The Stare

He had seen her. She was naked. He was sure. Her slender silhouette was unruffled by clothes. Her long, wild hair shook free.

He was well hidden. He was almost completely concealed behind the fence. There was a space for his eyes. Nothing else was visible.

From here he could watch her. Unnoticed.

She moved to the window and opened it, putting her long, carefully manicured nails onto the sill. 

She looked out and shook her red hair. Her red hair! How he loved her red hair! 

But he had to be careful. She might see him. His eyes might meet hers. 

He pulled back. This is madness, he thought. But her red hair. He had to have one more look at her beautiful red hair. 

He peered through the gap in the fence and looked straight into her cold, unforgiving eyes. 

And there he remains: a stone reminder of the perils of obsessions. And if you place your ear to his stone mouth, you can hear, very faintly: “Her red hair! Her red hair!”

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