You have fallen in love, as much as you can, and spend your endless nights hanging outside his apartment, looking down at his dark windows. He stands motionless behind the glass until morning throws the stone that puts the night to flight. He could see you, invisible though you are, if he but turned his head, but he doesn’t. You are two statues, together, and you incline toward him, like a magnet toward the poles.
He is perfectly built for mediocrity. He might be from any of a dozen races, might be an old 25 or a young 60, might, in this light or that, be male or female. He blends perfectly into any crowd, a half-familiar face in a hundred neighborhoods. You have never seen such impossible perfection, and sawdust leaks from your every empty pore for him.
You edge closer and closer until you are his shadow, stretched two steps behind as he moves through the city, one seat back on the train, one breath away in the bars, if you breathed, or he did. Neither of you drink, or eat, but sit pallidly apart in restaurants, picking at your waters and your steaks.
You urge promises through his windows, blandishments through his walls. One night he opens the window for you and you ooze inside, curl like fog around his unheated flesh as he stands, recharging, staring unblinking at the red glow of the city. He could see you if he but turned his head, but he doesn’t.