Page 2 of Fixation
She’s oblivious to my existence.
I’m hyperaware of hers.
After years of being dormant, a defibrillator jolt cracks through my chest.
My eyebrows pull together as confusion settles in.
This calling. This pull. This fixation with the red-headed woman who shares a wall with me.
I don’t understand any of it.
I can’t look away, either.
My heart beats again. Rapidly. Fiercely. Uncontrollably.
It wants what it wants, and it wantsher.
I take a step closer toward the woman in the window.
She remains blissfully unaware, letting me watch her. Adore her.
“Sir?” one of the movers asks.
Reluctantly, I’m forced to tear my eyes from the most beautiful profile of the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever come across.
The guy is about my age, his eyes a lighter shade of brown than mine. His hair, though, is the same color and texture. Thick, dark brown, and cut short.
He could be dead for all I care. “What?”
“Where did you say you wanted to put this?”
Thisas in my medium-sized dresser where I’ll stash my serums and chemicals once the movers are gone.
While his face betrays nothing, his biceps bulge.
I’m being rude, not answering his question.
Thing is, my mouth can’t form words.
I’m preoccupied.
Mesmerized, really.
Unable to restrain myself, I turn back to her.
This woman, with her fiery hair and slender hands working, working, working.
On what?
Why do I care?
“Sir?”
The vein in my throat pulses. I’m infuriated by the need to go up there and ask her what she’s doing. And why would she need a blowtorch?
Why. Do. I. Care?
For so long, I couldn’t find it in me to give a fuck about anyone.
