Women

They seem, all, to belong to someone else. Different someones, of course. You don't want them for your own, necessarily. Just a loaner of sorts. For a weekend say or three days. These beautiful, infuriating women. Everywhere you turn or don't they are there. At the table or at the bar next to you it seems. Always rapt in conversation. Always talking or listening. Always animated. The way they tilt their heads back in a laugh showing the lines of their necks, nuances of pale and tan throats. Afterward, they nearly always fashion loose strands of perfect hair behind a right ear. Sometimes they finger, absently, the earring there. If it is there. All cheekbones on high and lovely. The quick furrowed brow when a conversation takes a turn for the serious. And then a calming smile before retreating again to more pedestrian talk. And often the neckline of whatever they wear is low and hints of cleavage even if there is none. Or a blouse bunches at the second or third button and the glance of lingerie or breast is dizzying. The briefest glimpse of white, fabric or skin. A suggestion only of what lies there. And you are foolish with lust. It is your nature. You try to be respectful. To not look at the women and their young eyes and jawlines. To not imagine their collar bones, their warm breath meeting yours. Their rhythm.

They seem, all, to belong to someone else. And while you do not want them to be yours, you think a long weekend, three days perhaps, would be nice. Maybe just to hold or breathe in or touch their cheekbones barely with the backs of your fingers.