Every night I work, I sit in a box. I am surrounded by fluorescent lighting. A TV is playing to my right with news talking about Trumps, Uber, The Queen of England.
People move about near me. Doors open. Door close.
I work on projects in my down time until I allow myself to go elsewhere.
I don’t have to go far about four miles to find my heart and feed my fantasy.
I see him laying in his bed, dressed in what I imagine he wears to bed, which isn’t much. Under only a sheet because he is restless from the heat of the summer night. One leg is thrown out from under the sheet. I see the bend of his leg and smile.
In this fantasy, he is dreaming of me, I hope. There is a slight moan that escapes his lips that has my name on it. I see that his hair is down from the way he usually wears it. I see that he has rapid eye movements which means he is dreaming. I hope it is me and him and naughty things. As I watch this dream state, he whispers my name.
I stand in the doorway and watch him and feel myself react. It is so strong, I can smell the raw maleness of him.
I react to this vision not only in the fantasy but also in my physical person. I sit here and the phone rings and I am swiftly carried away from thoughts of him and what I would like to see and I am swept from this place of passion, back into my box and snatched from fantasy back to reality. Sitting in my box.