I know he is watching me.
I can feel his eyes in my back this very minute, as I move my pen gracefully across this page. He's standing behind the small window, not even an inch of bare space between his window and my own. His arms are folded over his torso, one hand clutching the other's wrist, in his large black tunic. I'm not looking, but I can tell this all because of that one time that I turned around and caught him. He ran away from the window the second he realized that my eyes were on his body, like a frightened dog. After seeing such a horrific appearance, I did not dare look again....
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