Shapes are distorted through the peephole. His body is elongated and lithe. He looks like he could melt into a puddle, slide beneath my door, and slip into my arms. He’s always straining by the time he gets to the 3rd floor. His brown uniform tightens around his muscular thighs and sucks up into his crotch as he summits the stairs. Sweat moistens his hairline. It makes me lick my lips and press my body against the door. He pauses at the top of the stairs and checks the door number, even though he knows it. I love how careful he is with things. Then he gathers himself, scanning the bar code before setting it down lightly. He never leans the package so it will fall when I open the door. Never leaves it in the middle of the hall where a neighbor could trip. It’s always where the eye will catch it, but the foot will not. Each action is manicured and gentle. Other delivery drivers toss things into the corner. He is efficient and deliberate. Good with his hands.

I order more and more packages, fantasizing about opening the door. Taking away the filter of the peephole, the safety of cloudy vision and camouflaged intimacy. But what would be the fun of that. Discovery is always followed by disappointment. Making the magnificent known only creates new patterns of normalcy. I would never truly wish for my David to come down from his pedestal. I’d just be close enough to see the cracks in his marble cheeks. Instead, I will celebrate him from a distance. Keep him elongated and lithe through the peephole.

Michael Harper is a MFA candidate at the University of Idaho. Previously he taught kindergarten. His most recent work has appeared in Hobart, Manzano Mountain Review, Variant Literature, TaintTaintTaint Magazine, Decomp Journal, Litro Magazine, Brilliant Flash Fiction and many more.