He did not move or talk and instead he just stared at her. He had the look in his face. She called it “the look” every time he placed his eyes on her and then went somewhere else. She wondered where he would go. Several places, she assumed. He could be looking at her and could be looking inside himself. She thought she would like to be the image that took him to other places. Like a book, she thought, or a film. In the film she watched this week, a Russian man had “the look” while an Italian woman talked hysterically about the love she had for him. The scene ended with a close-up of the man talking discretely to the camera: “She is insane”. She wondered if he ever thought like the Russian man. Whenever they finished texting, she could see him nodding his head, “Insane, she is insane”. Or maybe after almost making love to each other he had wanted to say, “Insane, you are insane”. Once she had asked him about his impulses, “Do you feel them too?” He answered that actually yes; that he could not bring himself to watch the films she gave him for fear of them. She liked to imagine him being tempted by her films, that thought made her really happy. She wished he would wonder off with her every time she stared at him. Could he too be the image that took her to other places? Like a book, she thought, or a film.
