I see her walking down the hall again, stocking clad legs between spike heels and a skirt just a little too short to be decent. Gorgeous, elegant legs, I'm probably staring again. I try to tell myself that I'm only wishing I had legs like that, but I'm not sure I believe me.
Her eyes glide over me as she passes, I wonder what she sees, ordinary face, plain clothes, does she pity me? envy me? maybe she doesn't think about me at all, maybe she's just checking I don't have a knife.
I listen to the sound of her footsteps click clicking their way towards the elevator, I want to turn round, introduce myself, ask her name. Does she use her real name? does she have a professional name? something like Candy or Sugar. I've probably watched too much television if I'm thinking that. In my imagination she's grateful for someone to talk to, someone who understands that she's more than just a reflection of other's fantasies. Except that's me projecting my own lonely fantasy right there, isn't it?
I hear the lift doors open. I turn to look. She's standing in the lift, beautiful, glamorous. Just for an instant our eyes meet. My heart skips, confusing me in ways I have no idea how to deal with. For a moment everything seems to hang in the balance, if I could only speak the right words, some kind of password to a different life, but the doors slide shut. The connection is lost.