John doesn't enjoy his daily half past eight dinner. He thinks sandwiches are boring. What he looks forward to is dessert.Every night, when the clock hits nine John is pressed against the wall of his room, under the darkness, his looks, through the wooden jalousie. His nightly dessert is to let his eyes crawl on her soft skin, up to the curve of her shoulders, to her firm breasts. He can taste her sweetness from his room. His delectation is to see her take off every cover that she wore during the day, may it be orange, red, purple or white. He can even guess how she matches her bra to her skirt, to her blouse and to all her silky underwears.
Tonight is different.
Though pressed against the wall and eyes through the wooden jalousie. He didn't gaze through her dimly lit room. He even forgot the pleasure of voyeurism.
It's past nine and she wasn't there. Dessert wasn't served.
John walks towards the bed and in the darkness of his room, in the mist of his eyes, he can still see her purple bra, her smooth arms, the glimmer of light on her legs. And as his right hand is pressed on the cushion of the mattress, his left hand spreads her legs apart.
This is the first time he enjoyed dinner. Twice in one night. A different sandwich.
