Watching Her Chapter 6 - Piglet

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Chapter 6 - Piglet - The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh
Piglet's main characteristic is his timidity and his fearfulness. Although Piglet is extremely cowardly, he joins Pooh and friends on their many adventures, and tries his best to conquer his fears. In many situations Piglet is the only one that can save the day; he may hesitate at first but will eventually come through. 

Not more than a few minutes pass, barely enough time for me to pull my hood over my head and for my insides to stop feeling like they're in a blender, before the door opens and out she comes.

Pale pink shorts. A huge picture of Piglet embellishes a white t-shirt ringed in black at the arms and the neck. She's wearing a pair of flip-flops and oh, holy hell, her hair's up. I have to bite the inside of my cheek, hard, to stop the low, animalistic growl that wants to escape when I spy not one, but two ponytails - pigtails - hanging low and loose on either side of her head. Her shorts are so short and her shirt looks like it's at least one size, possibly even two, too small for her.

She's the hottest damn thing I've ever seen.

My mouth goes dry. My dick wants out so it can show its infinite appreciation for how sexy she looks. The blood that races through my veins feels warm, tingly, and my entire body shivers as I watch her practically skip toward the garage, her flip-flops slapping against the asphalt. The sound floats through the still night air and by the time it reaches me, I'm finally able to swallow over the golf ball-sized lump in my throat.

"Please don't freak out. Please don't freak out. Please don't freak out," I chant and bang my head lightly against the tree to punctuate each word.

I should've come up with a better plan. I should've baked her a pie or a casserole or something and brought it over to welcome her to the neighborhood, or hell even just knocked on her front door and introduced myself as her neighbor … anything but leaving her a cryptic letter in the middle of the night.

I don't know why I didn't, besides the fact that as much as I want to know her, find out everything about her, I like watching her.

Call me a perverted sneak if you must, but it's the fucking truth. The way she moves, the way she plays, the secret smiles that come out of nowhere, except from deep inside of her, keep me coming back night after night.
She's going to freak, and she's going to hate me, I think and ball my hands up in tight fists inside of my hoodie. My heart leaps into my throat as she slowly makes her way toward her drum set. I know she hasn't seen the notebook or the sticks yet because she's looking in the direction of the bookshelf as she walks. God, I wish I knew why she has a shelf filled with self-help books, some medical books, and most strangely of all, a book on rebuilding car engines. It's driving me crazy, trying to reconcile those books with her, wondering how they connect. Are they hers? Has she read them, and if so why?

Oh, fuck. I begin panting, my breath choppy and quick. She takes another step and then comes to an abrupt stop. She sees the drumsticks and the notebook on the stool. Her head whips around and the wide, fear-filled eyes I see makes my stomach drop. She takes a tentative step forward and then stops again, closer, but not close enough to read the letter. My hands are on each of my legs, fingernails digging into the denim.

Shit, shit, motherfucking shit, I scream silently. I'm such a fucking asshole for doing this to her. I watch as she takes the final step, stopping directly in front of the stool.

Her body is ramrod stiff and I swear I can feel her fear float through the air. Her mouth is open, her pink tongue darting in and out. There is no doubt if I were closer, I'd be able to hear the pounding of her heart.

My feet are rooted to the ground; I'm frozen in place as if cement covers my shoes. I want to move, to go to her, to explain that I was only trying to do something nice for her, to make her smile. I'd tell her that all I want is to be her friend because she looks so much like she needs one … that I could listen to her play for days and never get tired of it. That I want her to be able to finish her song, that it's all I can think about.

I force my legs to move, just the smallest of steps before I'm the one that stops dead in my tracks. She's stepped closer, close enough now to read the letter. She lifts her hand, tentatively, inching it closer, so, so slowly, as if it's a snake, coiled and ready to strike at any moment.

Oh no, oh God, this is it. She takes the final step and I watch, spellbound and petrified as she gingerly picks up the drumsticks. Her hand closes around them and with her other, she holds the notebook. I'm transfixed, my lips pressed tightly together, holding every ounce of breath inside my body.

Her eyes widen and in the next moment, she drops the notebook as if it's caught on fire and burned her hand. The pages flutter as it falls through the air. Clack, ping, clack, ping. The sound of the drumsticks dropping to the cement floor rings out, hollow and desolate.

I'm sick. I'm so angry at myself.

She whips her head around again and I can see the wheels turning in her head. I groan when she rushes forward and slams her hand repeatedly against the wall. For the briefest of seconds I wonder what she's doing until I hear the whirring of a motor and watch, devastated, as the bay doors begin to lower simultaneously.

Her eyes are wary as they scan from left to right, peering out as the doors close, lower, lower, until she's safely, and I would guess permanently, hidden from me.

I can't move for the longest time. I can't take my eyes off the building. I know she won't come out and it hurts. God, it hurts so fucking much. I can picture her behind the steel, pacing, too afraid to even come out, maybe wondering how long she has to stay in there before it's safe to go back into her house.

When I can't take it anymore, I slowly turn and begin the torturous trek back home. I wonder what in the hell I'm going to do now. I'm at a loss, confused about it all … mostly why it hurts so badly. I climb the steps to my house and then trudge up the stairs to my room. I kick off my shoes and then fall into my bed, having neither the will nor the inclination to get undressed. I roll over and stare at the ceiling; my mind is a chaotic mess, and her frightened eyes haunt me.

The only thing I can make sense of is that I'm not giving up. Two o'clock tomorrow morning I'll be there … watching and waiting.
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