My heart races as I pass his door. Will this be the time? Will he come out and talk to me? Invite me in. I try to control my pace, don’t falter, don’t pause, but I look at his door as I pass by. I beg with my eyes for it to open, and for him to be standing on the other side. I have almost worn a path in the carpet of the hallway, racing up and down the stairs, pretending to check on the laundry every thirty minutes, even though I know it takes closer to an hour to finish washing or drying. But I’m waiting for him, looking for him. Trying to be coy about it.

I am truly surprised when his door does finally open, and he follows me down the stairs to the landing. I slow a little, but keep going down the next half-flight to the laundry room. He stops at the door, cracking it open to take a smoke. I don’t smoke, but I’ll gladly stand and talk to him if he’s there when I’m finished loading the dryer.

He is still there. He’s watching me, as I bend over to tuck the laundry into the dryer. I can see him watching, and he makes no secret of it.

His eyes tell me stories of what he’d like to do with what he sees, and what he doesn’t see. I wish I could live some of those stories. But life is complicated. We both know it, but the fantasies are what keep me wearing a path in the carpeted stair-well. I want him to tell me those stories with his body, not just his eyes.

I am married, and I think he is spoken for as well… sometimes, at least. But then sometimes he doesn’t seem so taken, and I wonder if he would actually take me, given a decent opportunity. He’s already suggested such; he’s invited me in once. But I had my hands full of groceries, and then when I didn’t have my hands full anymore, it seemed too brazen of me to knock on his door to clarify what he’d meant by “visit”. And I’m sure I know what he meant anyway, as he keeps telling me with his other languages.

So now, we play this game where I seek him out, and sometimes he plays along.

But I still wonder what would happen if he ever invited me in again. I think that if I hadn’t had my hands full, I would have gone inside his apartment right then. And my regret settles in. I really want to spend more time with him.

He’s an interesting person. We’ve talked about all kinds of things, mundane, every-day things. Each talk, I get closer to making contact. Contact physically, as I subtly lean toward him, my hand outstretched on the wooden handrail of the stairwell. Quietly reaching out for him, and I notice it, but I don’t pull it back. Or the silent position of one foot, as I shift and step a little more in his direction.

Emotional contact, as my obsession for him grows stronger. And I feel a great sense of loss when it’s been over two days and I haven’t seen him and talked to him in the hall, even in passing. I know this is dangerous; I’ve played this game before, and lost. I know I’m more than likely to lose this round as well, but still... I play. I’ve already made contact with my eyes, and I find myself holding my breath until I can make such contact again. I like what I’ve seen.

And he seems to enjoy my company as well, however brief it is. I imagine that I feel his gaze caressing my body as we talk. As I’m walking back upstairs, I can imagine him watching as my pants hug my butt. It turns me on to think that he could be looking. My thoughts run wild as I try to figure out if I’m going too fast up the steps, or too slow. I know I put too much thought into such things, but I can’t help it. I want his attention but I don’t want to linger too long or walk too slowly. But we seem to have this passing fantasy of each other. I suppose it’ll keep going as it is now, and I’ll never really know what those stories in his eyes could feel like.

But I want to.