Communication of Bodies, the Words Spoken by Eyes

She was in my office, she wanted to talk about St. Thomas. She is only 18 or 19. She told me that she's decided to minor. She has a beautiful face, with long brown hair, wavy, a lovely jaw line, perfect teeth. And green eyes. Like mine. She looks directly at me, not turning away. I talk and ask her questions. I pull my chair closer to hers. In those rare moments when she looks at her book, my eyes move to her cleavage, barely visible between the open wings of that coat, like a curtain parted just enough to present the drama which will soon unfold.



 

When I want to kiss someone, I look at their mouth, in a way that is evident to the other person. In those moments my face betrays, in some secret language, that I understand others recognize, but which I cannot simply duplicate, the desire to kiss, to fuck.  The body becomes an object in my eyes.  

I can talk through medieval philosophy without thinking. But she falters, loses her concentration because she recognizes that look. She giggles and is embarrassed, but ostensibly about not being clear about what she's saying.  I know that it is because there is a warmth between her legs.  I lean back in my chair.  My arms are not crossed, but still on the arms of the chair, beckoning, imploring.  

And then she leaves.  And I remain someone who has left one, professionally vital line, uncrossed. My sex begs for attention when I come home.  Come home, it says.  Come home.