In the locker room, you’re watching me change my clothes

You catch a glimpse of red hair falling across bare shoulders as the locker room door swings shut behind you.

You feel the heat of the space close in — the damp air, the narrow benches, the particular intimacy of someone undressing just feet away from where you stand frozen.

You watch fabric slide down slowly, deliberately, as if the owner of that body knows exactly what your eyes are doing and has decided to let you keep looking — your breath shallow, your hands useless at your sides, every polite instinct you have completely overruled.