The Spy

Short story of a male creeping on a female, holding onto the hope she'll notice him one day.

Oh my god! Oh my god! There she is again! Oh she's so lovely! She's wearing pink again today. Pink really suits her. At least I think it's pink, never was very good at colours. Maybe it's red. Or orange. She looks amazing anyway. She didn't come yesterday. Or the day before. I missed her. It felt like a long time. She does this regularly. She'll come five times, then not for two times, then five times again and so on. Always at the start of the day. When the two clock hands come together at the bottom. Sometimes she doesn't come for a long time and I wonder if she'll ever come again but then she appears again, as if nothing had ever happened, as if my heart wasn't broken from longing to see those long, long legs. 

 

But I forgive her. I'd forgive her anything, as long as she keeps coming. As long as I can see that naked face of hers, those strange blue eyes. I've seen them four hundred and thirty two times now. Today is the four hundred and thirty second. I wonder if she knows that. Has she counted like I have? Are these moments as precious to her? She does keep coming so I guess that's a good sign. 

 

Sometimes it seems like she looks at me. A passing glance. But I'm shy: I look around corners, hide behind people, hang around on the bridge looking down on the platform where she stands. Where her hair reflects the sunlight. Where it gets so wet it sticks to her perfect face. Where it gets blown horizontal. I wonder what it would feel like. To touch it. I would walk on it, feel it through my feet, grasp it with my toes. That would be something special. 

 

I hear the gut wrenching sound. The metallic screeching which makes something inside me tremble. I instinctively check in the sky but nothing is there. I try not to, I know what happens. And sure enough, when I look back she is obscured by the train. I strain my neck, even though I know it's useless. I know I won't be able to see her. Not from this place. Not until tomorrow now. It's going to be a long, longing day. Again. 

 

I say my silent goodbye to her. As silent as the hello. Maybe one day I'll pluck up the courage to approach her. To dance for her. But then what? Nothing. It is as useless as my friends keep telling me. I mean it's not like she's going to fall for a train station pigeon, is it?