I’m peeking into the bathroom through the keyhole, and what I see takes my breath away, makes my palms sweat. I carefully bend lower, trying not to make any noise, leaning both hands against the closed door. The stillness makes my lower back ache and my neck cramp, but I can’t tear myself away. From here, I have a spellbinding view — Lily, standing in the shower stall, the curtain still pushed aside, still misted with steam. She stands nude and vulnerable, beautiful as Aphrodite herself — if Aphrodite had been born from the foam of blueberry shower gel. Gently and leisurely she glides her favorite cream over her gleaming skin. My heart stumbles each time she reaches for the jar. I’m afraid the moment will end, that Lily will come out of the bathroom.

Her soft hand, tipped with sharp nails, pauses in the air before sinking back into the thick vibrantly pink cream. She’s not done yet. And neither am I, with my thoughts spinning frantically, threatening to tear my head apart. My gaze lingers, drifting from her amber, lynx eyes to her slender neck, down to her breasts, across the smooth stomach. Lily barely eats. Whenever we have dinner after a busy day, she only takes a few spoonfuls of raw corn or nibbles on some fennel. And when I ask her to eat something more substantial, she always jokes about feeding on shadows. She says, “My dear Henri, they say that somewhere in the East there are people who eat the Sun. So why shouldn’t there be people who eat shadows?”. Then she laughs, and laughs, and laughs. 

Lily’s driving me crazy. I’ve always longed to truly see her, to examine every inch of her body, but after sex, she always hides it, pulling over herself towels, blankets, curtains and then — she gets dressed. And now, through the tiny keyhole in the bathroom door, I let my gaze go down, but as if sensing it, she turns away. The last drops of water slide from her wet auburn hair, tracing delicate paths down her voluptuous body. I’m obsessed with her legs, the mole on her right hip, the graceful slope of her shoulders.

I bite down on my lip to keep quiet, as my eyes catch on her sharp shoulder blades, between which a tiny zipper peeks out. I’m shivering. My legs wouldn’t be able to carry me anywhere, not even if a lion were chasing me. Or a lynx.

Lily is beautiful beyond belief, and I’m afraid of that. I’m afraid she’ll finish her ritual and step out of the bathroom. I am afraid that one day, with the ease of an ancient goddess, she’ll shed her costume — and then try to tear off mine.