Grasping

After lunch, I walk behind her on the way back to her office.
Don’t stare, I tell myself.
Repeatedly.
Then go right on staring.
Bubble butt in low-waist slacks.
Long dark hair brushing softly against white silk blouse.
Way out of your league, says my brain.
Ah, but shouldn’t a man’s reach exceed his grasp? I retort.
Laughter echoes through my skull.
We enter her office and return our attention to the legal puzzle on her desk.
Wrongful termination.
Blue sky, indistinct green marshland, no straight lines.
She points.
I look.
Smudge of salad dressing on my tie.
Unfair.