watching

You were proper. Every strand of hair pulled back neatly. The bun placed perfectly at the top center of your head. Two very intentional tendrils framed your face — restrained and appropriate. Makeup applied in such a fashion that it was hard to tell it was even there. The only give away: your bright cheeks with their perfect red circles of youth. But maybe they were natural, it’s hard to tell. Your thin, blue, silk dress with an oriental pattern in a lighter shade of blue hung perfectly on your small shoulders. Unmoving, as though made to rest in just that very spot on just this very frame. Your arms gracefully folded about your small waist — hovering over your capable hips. Hips not too narrow and not too wide. Just enough to hint at the children you would some day mother. Temperate and innocent. The dress ended conservatively below your knees. Your shoes were black and attractive, yet sensible and adult. As you walked the outline of your thick muscled legs was visible with each advance; The legs of a gymnast, perhaps. As you passed me I noticed, hidden under so many perfect, calculated layers, the shape of your small, left breast — unsupported and bouncing tightly with each quick, short, deliberate step.