Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: The Quarry (unfinished)
Author: Hugh Deacon
Keywords: poetry, rom, f, mc

   She wanders, a gazelle among the desks, slender, shy, her eyes cast down
they slide away when men in Sales try to engage - she cannot stop.  But I
see her hair in tumbling curls, and only just controlled, feel it already
in my hand.  Her skin, so soft beneath the eye, blushing at the pressure of
a look, would be still softer to my touch, almost bruising as my hand folds
hers within with space to spare.  She stops a while to find a file, so I
can stroke her back with gentle stares, can linger on the sweep of skirt
that shows her thigh, and not disturb her fragile ease with more than that.

   It isn't that she's beautiful, exactly.  She's thin and
interesting-looking.  It may be the way she faces the world, bravely, like
she has to fight overwhelming odds just to get through.  Maybe that makes
me want to protect her.  Or it could just be the innocence that hangs
around her as tangibly as the freshly-washed smell of her clothes.

   In any case, when she is in the room, I find it hard to keep my eyes off
her.  Sometimes she glances up, catches my look, and smiles, slightly
embarrassed to be noticed, and sometimes we exchange a few words, most
often something mildly amusing so we both have a reason for our nervous
laughter.  But more often I concentrate on my desk when she's facing my way
...  then, when she is occupied elsewhere, I can marvel again at the curve
between her hip and dainty waist, wishing I had the skill to capture that
elegant sweep on paper, sure that it would be the very essence of art.

   I can imagine touching her, gently so as not to damage her skin or her
confidence, imagine myself so skilful that she purrs under my hand and
leans into me, knowing from just my touch the way I could care for her. 
Sometimes I think I could be satisfied with no more than that, chaste, but
I see her again and can sense the female essence of her.  She needs,
whether she knows it or not, awakening.

   She doesn't know what she could be what she already is in all but mind.
The woman hides behind the child for fear of sharing what she has, the
treasure that she is herself.  When we share smiles, I see it there.

   What could I do to release her from her prison of shyness and naivety?
Well, if I wasn't shy and naive myself, I might know.  In my dreams, I
imagine I could get inside her head and help her thoughts along.  Suppose,
as other girls have done, she finds me pleasant, and only smiles because I
don't seem threatening?  I could shape an idea and fit it among hers.  An
idea that I am attractive and that she'd like to see more of me, and in
other ways than an office permits.  That might be enough to steer her to my
arms while keeping that lovely innocence.  And if it wasn't enough?  Well,
while I'm dreaming ...

   Catrina looks sweeter than usual today.  Her walk takes her my way with
less of a pause, her shoulders are straighter, her eyes have a light that
says she is