Greed

She watched him. From the corner of her eye, from underneath veiled eyes, she always watched him. It might happen that she followed his car into work. It wouldn't be intentional, merely a coincidence. His sleek car that his father had bought him for his birthday would roar past her own second hand saloon. She might follow him through the lobby in the wake of his cologne as the receptionist dropped whatever she was doing to straighten, flick her hair and bid him as sultry a hello as she could muster at eight thirty in the morning after her toddler had kept her up half the night. He looked sharp, there was no doubt. He didn't wear designer clothes, not recognisable ones that is. She suspected that his outfits were bespoke, made by a tailor in Bond street, no doubt. It wasn't just the accoutrements, though, the gloss, he was incredibly handsome - film worthy. Good genes. His chin was chiseled beneath a Romanesque nose and dedicatedly tousled hair. Oh, yes he was handsome. But her fascination wasn't with him. She just felt an aching, desperate longing for his money.


Time up.
Tonight's inspiration came from the Fiction Writer's Workbook. Which was definitely more manageable: take a common emotion and create a character around it.