Crush

I leaned against my car, in the lot of his complex, cloaked in my invisibility. He pulled up, and I hurried to slip in when he unlocked his apartment door. I needed to know how he felt about me. He stared out the sliding glass door, slowly chewing his nuked meal. I walked through the apartment, looking at his books, wishing to flip through the pages, knowing I couldn’t create a disturbance.     The shower turned on, and I wilted, assuming I’d missed my chance. But he’d left the curtain open enough; I squeezed through.     His back was to me—his arm braced high on the wall, letting the water run through his hair, down his neck, across his spine to his plump ass. His other arm disappeared in front of him, making rhythmic jerks at the elbow.      I heard a low moan over the running water, then, “Fucking red toenails.” I looked down at my feet, and though I couldn’t see them, I knew my toenails were painted red and had teased him all day through my sandals. He exhaled hard and spent in the drain. “What the hell am I going to do about Sara?” I froze as he excited the shower.      He settled into bed, and I laid next to him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the depression in the sheets. I watched him falling asleep, promising to leave once his breathing was deep and steady, promising things would be different tomorrow.