Not Watching Her

She smears vaseline on her lips, and I’m not watching her, not really. I’m not watching her as she twirls a strand of brown hair around her finger, looking at James adoringly. I’m not watching her as she pouts at Michael, drawing her lips together and the vaseline makes them shine under the light, looking rubbery and unattractive, but still I want to stare. She draws her skirt up her thigh tantalisingly, pretending it’s all an accident, making sure the male half is seeing it and I’m not watching her.

And I’m not watching her as she turns her back on me and walks away.