The Art Class.
He liked to watch her, after he’d got undressed and made himself comfortable.
His mind concocted a thousand different scenarios where they were together.
Weirdly, they weren’t all sexual, no, some were quite innocent.
In the parental guidance ones, they had coffees, went for long walks and chatted about books and films.
But, here’s the thing…he didn’t even know her name.
He’d christened her Miss Yellow, as a tribute to Reservoir Dogs, although he knew there wasn’t a Mr Yellow in it.
The reason for the colour yellow was, when he watched her working, she seemed to favour it. A lot.
It was hard to explain what it was about her….she was around thirty, and had shoulder length, curly blonde hair that fell into her face. For some reason she never bothered to tie it up, and he liked to imagine weaving his fingers through it. Her lips were pink and glossy, and her huge eyes were obscured behind thick framed glasses that she continuously pushed back up her small nose.
Sometimes, when their eyes met, they got steamed up and he had a really hard time keeping a straight face.
She fascinated him, this petite, quiet woman and he had no idea why. He could only fantasise, and he did do so frequently, about the shape of her figure that she chose to hide under too many layers of baggy clothing.
Miss Yellow, on the other hand, knew everything, single thing about his figure….seen as he was stark, bollock naked.