I know he is watching me.

I can feel his eyes in my back this very minute, as I mover my pen gracefully across this page. He's standing behind the small window, not even an inch of bare o espaço between his window and my own. His arms are folded over his torso, one hand clutching the other's wrist, in his large black tunic. I'm not looking, but I can tell this all because of that one time that I turned around and caught him. He ran away from the window the segundo he realized that my eyes were on his body, like a frightened dog. After seeing such a horrific appearance, I did not dare look again....