I keep looking at his back. I want to leave scratches between his shoulder blades as his chest presses against mine. I want to squeeze my pale, slim legs around his waist until I can't get any closer. I never want this feeling to leave my body, or his. It's our secret—a secret only shared between strangers. The strange ones.
He has no idea I'm writing this while I watch him. He doesn't even know what I want to do to him, or what I want him to do to me. I want those arms wrapped around my lower back, pulling me closer so we can feel every part of ourselves, together, connected as strangers: nothing known, only felt. Does he feel it too? Does he think about me the way I think about him? Does he want me just as bad? Is it strange to feel so passionate about someone I have never talked to, or are strangers the only subjects for true desire?
This article appears in May 20-26, 2009.