Wanting

 My friend:

 I saw her; I wanted her; I could not have her; I dream of her still.

 She stood before me in line, in a store in Tucson.
 Her face was not pretty, but strong, a flat Inca face, high cheekbones and wide nose, copperish, intriguing.

 She wore a black business suit, severe, with a short skirt.
 Her long legs encased in dark hose twined before me, shadowed and shining.
 A cellphone dangled from her attache case.
 She did not smile.

 I wanted to ask, "Who are you? What do you? Will you stand for my camera? Will you undress? Will we pursue sex? Can I, should I, capture your image, your face, your body, your heart, your pleasure? How? Can we, should we, share an hour, an evening, a life? Why? Will I part your thighs? Will your nectar flow on my tongue? Will your screams fill my ears?"

 I have no answers; I have no courage; I masturbate. So do you.

 Your friend,