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 i... 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. I guess it stems from my own childhood, Mum, sister and an aunty, not knowing their intimacies – but I was swamped in wobbly white flesh and the nice thing was, big cheery faces and expressions, rarely angry. A new elderly neighbour four doors down the road was perfect to ogle from a distant, persuading me to walk to the local shop, rather than drive, if I could see her in the front doing a bit of gardening which she loved, judging by her exertions, always alone- no sign of a man.I met this. More

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