I can almost feel her pencil on the back of my neck as I watch her draw.

The artist. I don't know her name. She's down here in the park nearly every lunchtime, drawing intently as I watch. I nibble quietly on my salad, slowly letting myself relax after a morning of petty slights at work. "Get us some coffee, Jane." "Jane, this needs to be copied before the client gets here." "Hey, looking good today, Jane, got a special date tonight?" Even the guys who know I'm married leer at me.

I don't know her name, but I know her every part as though I've been studying nothing else for months. Her left hand, usually with a little black on the paper side where she's been drawing. Her quick eye, dark chocolate brown, seeing much more than I can, flashing. Her little satisfied smile when her drawing is going well. Her little grimaces when she wants to change things. Long raven hair, just a few gray strands, pulled back into a pair of braids, usually pinned up on her head. Nice gray wool cardigan and jeans. Her neck, with the little stray hairs I always want to sweep away so she can feel on her neck what she's doing to mine.

She takes my breath away sometimes.

I don't remember when I started thinking about touching her hair and neck. Probably about the time I started really watching her draw. I usually only get glimpses of her drawings as she's flipping the page over for a new one, but I can feel the entire detail of her subject on my neck.

As usual, she's drawing one of the lunching women on a nearby patch of grass. Her subject is oblivious to her attention. I have noticed that woman before. She's one of these women who don't know how beautiful they are, or don't seem to care. Strawberry blonde, small high breasts, strong looking hands, long legs. She usually takes her shoes off in warm weather. Wears a sundress to work in the summer. Slacks and cashmere sweaters this fall. Wears just a hint of makeup. Flawless skin with no freckles.

I've been looking at her for years. She's the one I sometimes mentally undress on the grass.

I don't want her. Not really. I've never been with a woman. I love my husband. I... I'm just speculating about what it would be like to lie down with her and hold her. Naked. Yes. No. I don't know what I want, it's.... I don't know. I just want to take off that powder blue sweater and touch the breasts I know are bare underneath. And kiss her neck, smell her hair.

I look up and see the artist watching me. I can feel her pencil on the back of my neck as she draws. Is she drawing me? The woman on the lawn? She stares at me looking at her for a few seconds, appraising me, then goes back to drawing, looking at the strawberry blonde. I start to breathe again, feeling her drawing on my neck.

My neck is how my husband first seduced me. My most erogenous zone, he calls it. Actually, he calls it my "ero-genius" zone. Still seduces me that way, touching my neck. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then cast a glance at her.

She's looking at me again.

The artist. I swear she can see my nipples trying to betray me through my lacy bra, through my red blouse. The washable silk my husband bought because he loves to touch me through it. I resist the temptation to cover my breasts with my hands or by crossing my arms over them, as I have to do all day at work. Instead, I sit and pretend to be looking at the sky, the trees just beginning to turn golden, the birds. Anything but her. And the blonde on the lawn. And the ghostly touch on my neck.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her as she nods to herself as if she has made a decision. She closes her pad, walks slowly but purposefully toward me. She quietly sits beside me on my bench. Doesn't look at me. Just sits there a minute.

Then: "She's amazing, isn't she?" she asks without prologue.

"I'm sorry?"

"That girl on the lawn. You were fantasizing about her again."

"I... what?"

"Fantasizing."

I pause, stare at her, taken aback. "Was it that obvious?"

"Your breathing gives it away. Not to mention your breasts."

She grins, and she opens her pad to show me today's drawing. The blonde is there, lying on the grass. Half nude. The cashmere is crumpled up like a pillow under her head in the drawing.

I'm in the drawing too, in the corner, sitting on the bench, obviously aroused. One of my hands is covering my breast, but not for modesty; it's circling my nipple. My very erect nipple.

"I like to watch you draw. It's almost like you're drawing on my neck."

"I know. Well, I didn't know it was your neck. I just knew you were ... well, aroused by watching me. Or her. Or both."

I swallow, try to make myself breathe again. "I..." I swallow again, try to calm myself. "I didn't even know I was aroused until today." I continue to look at the woman on the lawn. Anything but meet the artist's eyes.

She smiles, reaches over to touch my neck. Soft, gentle strokes, upward against the grain of my hair. "You like having your neck touched?"

I nod, unable to speak.

"I do too." She's massaging my neck now with her hand, slipping down into my collar a little to touch my shoulder.

I tentatively reach up to touch her neck. The little soft hairs are all standing on end. She casually lifts the pad as if to show me the drawing, but really so we can hide and kiss softly. Her mouth is so sweet. She smells of jasmine. And arousal. Her eyes are smiling as I open my lips and touch tongues with her.

"I... I have to get back to work."

She smiles. "Take the afternoon off. Call in sick. Tell them your sister's sick, your kid's sick, your husband's sick."

"But, what do I tell my husband?"

"Tell him you were modeling for me."

"I... I can't." I look back at the woman on the lawn.

She follows my glance, and nods at the blonde. "Maybe we can get her to come along too." Grins.

"How?"

She grins again. "I'll show her the nude of you."