The first time I saw Will he was standing in front of the big glass windows that overlooked the forest. He was looking intently through the trees. I remember wondering what he saw there, back beyond the ones illuminated by floodlights, back where you couldn’t see anything at all except rich black velvet. His arms were folded across his chest, and his shirt, a dark washed silk stretched across his back and shoulders, tucked into black jeans. I stood back from him, giving myself a chance to look. At that moment I didn’t know he was Will. All I knew was that he was a man alone, and he wished he were not here. I knew exactly how he felt. The people at the party were getting on my nerves, especially the slim alligator-faced man sitting on the couch, his arm draped ever so carefully on the top of the cushions, edging closer to the blond woman next to him, the one in a short red skirt she kept pulling at, adjusting it as it crawled up her thighs. And Diana, her fawning crowd of fans gaping at her while she proclaimed that art had to have a political message. Diana, dressed in a thousand dollar gown, telling them that rich is wrong.
The man at the window turned. He must have felt my eyes on the gentle curve of his back, the way his jeans followed the curve of his rear and enveloped his lean long legs. I caught myself: lean long legs. Why do I do that? It is so distracting. I just want to see him turn around, see his eyes for the first time.