Mike looked through the sketch book she left. He knew this was a horrible act. But his lustful inquisitiveness pulled him into irregular habits. With each of her drawings he fell more fragmented. Then, the prose. Poetry. Deliciously erratic blurbs on wine, sights, scenes. He wanted her there, but didn’t need her form. He had her mind. He knew his dreams would provide all lacking.
His character, this Kelly, increasingly savory, he thought. He read her entry, its continuous ebb of emotion and perplexity. “This has to be wrong. I’m wrong,” he thought. Closed, back on the end-table. He looked at it, laid down. Imagined.