She is greedy for attention, in the way of self-centred and insatiable adolescent girls, absorbing all she can get, no matter who or where it comes from. Her eyes search for it restlessly and constantly. Who's looking at me?
I am. I shouldn't, and God knows — doesn't He? — that I wish I wasn't.
Clocked.
Her eyes meet mine as, stopped at traffic lights, I look out the window of my car. She holds my gaze just long enough to vacuum up my interest, my admiration, my lust. All sucked up. Another dirty old man, but she'll take it. Her eyes move on, looking elsewhere.
It's terrifying that she knows about her power. She's only fractionally a woman, just over the borderline. How old is she? I don't know. Can't guess. It's too hard these days. They're so tall. She could be fifteen. By God, and God forgive me, she could be twelve.
Skin, hair, legs, and of all those, it's the hair. Gorgeous, tumbling, shining, healthy, free-spirited, spilling and spiralling strawberry blonde hair. By God, she's stunningly beautiful. There ought to be a law. There is.
Her school uniform skirt is hiked up unnaturally high. Underneath, the body will be flawlessly almost-developed, breasts not as big as they're going to be, pubic hair soft and shy, thighs long and smooth.
Clocked.
“Oh, for God's sake,” says my wife, disgustedly. “Grow up.”
She's not talking about the girl. She's talking about me.
The lights change and I drive away. I can't defend myself. Saying anything will only make it worse.