There he is again. He doesn't even try to hide the fact that he watches me. He stares through me, as if he knows all of my dirty little secrets. He looks at me, as if he can read all of my emotions, but yet for some reason, I can't seem to get 'a read' on him. "Come on, there is that weird kid again," my volunteer for the day states, not even trying to speak low enough for the 'weirdo' that watches me to hear. I wouldn't call him a kid. I would gauge him at thirty years old which far exceeds being a kid... I think to myself. I steal a glance at the young man leaned against the building in the black leather jacket, I try to size him up. His face is granite. There really is no other way to describe the bone structure of it. His skin is white, not pale, but white, and yet he appears to be of Latin descent. Suddenly it hits me, he is Spaniard. His tousled black wavy hair and black eyes, along with his stance against the building, exude an attitude of not giving a shit. He simply couldn't care less. He couldn't care less that I'm fully aware of him. I am also aware of the fact that he stalks me. I don't know what to feel, all that I do know: is that when he is near........I feel............... ©2014 Suzanne Steele