I Can Always See Her

After several days of seemingly-nonstop winter rain, The Old Pueblo is graced once again with its trademark sunshine. Like so many Tucsonans, I have come out on this Sunday afternoon to do some shopping at one of the malls. My purchases made, I sit at Tohono Tadai Transit Center, patiently awaiting the next bus headed south toward the university.

I am typically a quiet, nondescript, essentially unnoticed person, one who observes and listens discreetly, taking note of the surroundings and the people who inhabit them at any given moment in time. Today is no different. I wear comfortable clothes – shoes, socks, jeans, t-shirt, and flannel shirt – and sit on one of the blue-painted metal park-style benches, my Software, Etc., bag beside me as I watch the passersby from behind my dark sunglasses.

Typically, there is not much of interest happening here. Occasionally, a person or group will stand out amongst the others, capturing my attention for a scant few seconds. It may be due to an unusual tattoo design, or the writing on one's clothing, or simply the way someone walks. If that person sees me at all, it is a quick glance that comes in my direction, sweeps over me, and moves on to other, more interesting people or things behind me. That suits me just fine – I prefer to be in the "background" anyhow.

Being in the "background," especially when my eyes are hidden behind the sunglasses, allows me to admire discreetly. It is very much true that Americans are as a group getting larger and larger, and I have certainly noticed that over the past ten years I have lived in this small city; yet this fact makes certain people stand out even more.

...like her.

I am guessing that she is twenty years old, but almost certainly a college student given that she and her friend are talking in a low, concerned tone about tomorrow's French exam. The two young women enter my field of vision from behind me and to my right. What draws my attention to her in particular is not just the fact that she is female, not just the fact that she has silky golden hair flowing nearly down to the small of her back, not just the fact that there seems to be a brilliant aura about her. Instead, what draws my attention to her is her clothing.

I look straight ahead, but my eyes are focused to the far right edge of my peripheral vision, tracking her and her friend as they walk slowly past, their purses draped across their bodies. She wears black platform heels, so she is about the same height as her friend. But her blue jeans and black t-shirt are so snug and tight upon her frame that they fit her almost like a second skin. The t-shirt embraces her so securely that I can actually discern the outline of her bra, particularly the left bra strap trapped between cloth and skin.

I turn my head in her direction, but only slightly; if she were to turn and look at me, she would almost certainly have no clue that I am watching her intently. My eyes drink in her form, admiring the pronounced swells upon her upper torso, noting the curves inward at the waist and outward at the hips. As she and her friend move slowly away from me, the jeans seem to be almost painted upon her due to the tight fit; I wonder idly if her friend had to help her into those jeans. Her derrière is meaty, firm, well-toned, and shifts quite pleasingly as she walks slowly at her friend's side.

Watching her, I have a very strong suspicion that she knows deep in her soul that she is undeniably gorgeous, that most men and some women would drop everything and kneel before her beauty if she so commanded. I am aware of others turning their heads to look at her, including a group of teenage boys who stare openly as she approaches them. Yet she must really be concerned about the French exam, as she does not pay them any attention, given that she is so deeply involved in her conversation with her friend.

For just a moment, I envision her draped across my thighs, her forearms bound together with the same abrasive rope used to both pin her upper arms to her torso and form her breast bondage. I can see her meaty flesh quivering underneath her second skin with each forceful impact of my hand. I can feel her squirming upon me, hear her grunting around the pistoning penis gag.

I smile to myself, just slightly.

Someone behind me and to my left calls out a feminine name, and both she and her friend stop and turn, their glances washing directly over me as they search out the source of the outburst. I can now clearly see her face for the first time: small and round, the cheekbones high and prominent, a thin coat of dark-red paint upon the lips, silver hoop earrings catching the available light in the shade of the overhangs at this transit center.

The t-shirt is so that that if she was not wearing a bra, her nipples would be clearly evident. In fact, given the manner of her dress, I assume the only hairs upon her body are those long silky golden strands attached to the top and back of her skull; therefore, the only mysteries are the size and shape of her nipples. Her clothes are so incredibly constricting upon her body that everything else is visible, even though she is appropriately covered.

The look of concern upon her face changes quickly to a warm greeting, a smile crossing her face. Taking her friend's hand, she hurries across my field of vision, walking quickly, and I marvel that she can move so quickly and fluidly in such form-fitting clothing and platform heels. My head does not turn to follow her as they pass by my position; I track her with my eyes instead, relishing every last detail before she passes out of my peripheral vision, the gentle bounce of each breast burned into the permanent record of my photographic memory.

At that moment, the bus arrives. I stand, pick up my shopping bag, and board the bus as soon as the previous passengers have disembarked. Once in my seat, I look around for her, but I do not see her. Perhaps she is hiding on the other side of the Information Center, talking with whoever had called her. Perhaps she is now on one of the other busses on the other side of the transit center.

Perhaps my eyes will never see her again. But that does not matter, for I can always see her in my mind.