Unexpected

I watch Erika Ellis's every move as she struts about town. Every night she appears in my living room, bedroom, and even on the screen of my phone. Though her image appears to thousands, I'm the only audience she should want.

It enrages me to entertain the idea that other people-other men-are watching as she smiles for the cameras, flaunts her shapely legs with tall high heels and short hemlines, or laughs with her co-anchor.

The other people don't matter. They don't know her like I do. They...