I had the opportunity for a long time to admire the spectacle of those girls fluttering across the emerald court like light-winged dryads caught in the middle of a dance. Their hair, gathered in high ponytails, soared at every swift turn, shimmering in the sun with amber, raven and wheat waves. Light skirts fluttered around their slender waists, sometimes falling with a rustle, sometimes soaring in a whirlwind, revealing a fleeting play of shadows and lines.

Every stroke of the racket gave birth to music: ringing laughter, intermittent breathing, the measured tapping of light steps merging into a charming rhythm. They rushed between the white lines and I, a fascinated onlooker, captured these rapid metamorphoses with my gaze: the wind caressing hot cheeks; sunbeams wandering in strands of loose hair.

Oh, this dance! It seemed as if Spring itself, tired of its gentle pastorals, had donned white robes and shown the world the perfection of movement.

But most of all I looked at you. Staring, I must say.

The sun was setting as your racket whistled through the air. You hit the ball methodically, almost indifferently, one-two from the right corner to the left, effortlessly chasing Bunny around the court, making him look like a circus clown.

"You're on fire today! Did you all see it? Yeah, that's my girl!" he shouted.

If only someone knew how much this piglet irritates me.

I bit my cheek until it bled while the caffeine burned my empty stomach, and the remains of the spliff I smoked an hour ago to calm the bubbling feeling between my ribs crumbled into dust in my pocket. I wanted to forget but your feet in white ankle socks left clear marks on the ground, not allowing me even to look away.

It's always like this: he is the noise, you are the silence and I am the one who counts the traces.

I caught a glimpse of the way your loose strands stuck to your neck, the way your skirt flew up in motion, revealing your firm curves. Richard, you fucking pervert, Papen, yes, I suppose I am.

When the game was over you went to the locker room and I followed. Forgive me, my sweetheart, but I couldn't help myself. Maybe I should have confessed. Or maybe I should have done what men do, taken what they want without permission. The obsession made my legs buckle and I felt sickened by myself. I am an arsehole.

The door to the changing room creaked on its hinges. It was dark inside, smelling of chlorine and your perfume. You were standing with your back to me, a towel in your hands, rubbing your wet hair. The black lace of your bodice exposed your shoulder blades and for a moment I imagined that the sharpness of Icarus' wings must have been the same. Your panties with thin straps emphasised the curve of your hips; the line I often dreamily drew in the margins of my notes.

I entered stealthily. You flinched when you heard the steps but did not turn around.

Camilla?

Ah, you were waiting for Camilla, not me. Of course, everyone but not me. And I didn't care that it was a women's locker room.

"No… it's me. Richard," I mumbled. My voice sounded alien. You turned slowly, making no move to cover yourself. The towel slipped to the side, water dripping from your body onto the tiles. So close. I enjoyed the tremor of your collarbone, the reddening bruise on your thigh.

And I had to admit to myself: I liked how vulnerable you looked when you were caught off guard.

"You played well," I managed to say. Simpler than I thought. Just a fact, dry as the leaves underfoot in November. You nodded, looking down.

Oh, my sweet angel, there was no need to be embarrassed in front of me. I only dreamed that you would look at me.

He, Bunny, left traces everywhere: his sweater on the bench, his thermos by your locker, his name. I took a step forward and you backed up against the locker, your back against the cold metal. "Sorry," I mumbled, but I didn't step back. My hand reached out to you and I touched your wrist.

"I… didn't want to interfere." Lie. I really wanted to.

I wanted you to see me instead of him. Fuck, just look at me once. I'm begging you.