I Watch

At first it's just a flash. A short blur of skin across the window opposite, barely clocked at the edge of my vision as I lie on the sofa. I wait a moment, pretending not to adjust my gaze. And then it's there, a golden arm, flexing just past the window frame, its owner out of view. It's definitely there.

I'm not going to miss anything this time. I get up and quickly close the blinds, leaving just enough space for the glow of the TV to show through. I briefly hover as I exit the room, assessing it. I decide to flick the main light on; I want all the signs of life to be here.

I ascend the stairs into relative darkness. Quickly. Quietly. The bedroom is dim with the charcoal light of an overcast dusk. I draw the blind on the skylight and adjust the curtains over the main window. More than a crack, but no more than lazily opened. It has to be plausible.

Clutching small binoculars, I kneel behind the bed, deep in the recess of the room. The windows opposite are perfectly framed by the aperture I have made -- a skyspace sculpture of my own hasty creation. I love it when that happens.

Satisfied with my canvas, raise the binoculars to my line of sight. I finger the focusing wheel to suit my dominant eye and adjust the dioptre to the other. I see my neighbour by the wardrobe in the middle of the room, against which I make my final adjustments for optimal definition. She looks thoughtfully into the row of dresses hanging in front of her.

I'm relieved to have found a pretty good focus and begin to relax. Kneeling on the floor, I adjust my stomach against the bed and perch on my elbows, binoculars carefully but comfortably balanced on my fingertips so as to avoid messing up the clarity of the picture. The room I look into is better lit than I had expected thanks to a fortunately-positioned desk lamp; it helps that the nearest streetlight has been out for a couple of weeks. I stretch my neck for comfort and breathe deeply.

The neighbour turns away from the wardrobe and walks stage right, quickly, leaving my sight. It's only for a moment; she moves slowly back into frame, studying her phone, the white glow illuminating her thumbs. She puts it down and walks back to the wardrobe, taking out a red dress with what looks from this angle like a large floral print in white. She hangs it from the top of the wardrobe door before turning to face the narrow section of wall between the large windows. She is almost facing me.

From the way she turns her head and then her body, I gather there is a long mirror propped between the windows. She takes half steps forwards and back, dipping and lifting her chin, turning her face side to side, all the while holding her gaze with the focus of a painter. She is deep in her reflection, and I feel safe.

For a time she hovers like this in front of the mirror, perusing her image, occasionally pausing to look down into her phone, or moving back to the wardrobe, weighing the red and white dress against other options. Mirror, phone, wardrobe; mirror, phone, mirror. The irregularity of the sequence beguiles me.

She's out of shot again, stage right. What's there? A bed I suppose, but the bare brick of the building gives little indication of the room's layout beyond what I can see. How long has it been? Thirty, forty seconds? I wonder and wait.

Returning, she puts down her phone and turns back to the mirror. Her T-shirt is gone; I imagine it's been discarded on the bed. She kneels in front of the mirror, face to face with herself. She begins applying a face cream of some sort. The motion of her fingers suggests it's just a gentle moisturiser. I watch as she checks a blemish on her jawline, her neck stretched long and curving beautifully to the strap of a comfortable-looking black bra.

She stands and takes the red and white dress off its hanger, pulling it over her head. It's a slightly flared summer dress with simple shoulder straps. More of a vintage style than I would have expected, but not cartoonish or kitsch in the way self-consciously 'retro' rockabilly or cheesecake-style pin-up dresses can be. She adjusts the side seams and bust before zipping it up at the back.

I can tell immediately it's not quite right. She knows it too. She unzips, walking over towards the bed. I see a glimpse of the dress as it's lifted back over her head. And then, as I had anticipated, the familiar sight of elbows jutting out. I know what it means. Unclasped, she moves back into my line of sight just as she shrugs the comfortable bra from her shoulders, revealing her soft, golden breasts.

There's a flicker in my breath as I exhale, as though I'm breathing icy air on a crisp winter's day. I shift the weight of the binoculars on my fingertips as delicately as I possibly can. There is no question of opportunistically reaching for my cock in a moment like this, undeniably firm against the edge of the bed though it now is. I'm not about to ruin this perfectly framed moment for a salacious thrill like some Peeping Tom pervert. Instead, I watch.

Dress back on, she wiggles her shoulders as she looks herself up and down in the mirror. It's more comfortable right away. She zips up and takes in her profile from each side. That's it, much better. Without fanfare, the dress is coming off again. For a brief moment her stomach and breasts are stretched out in front of me as her arms reach above her head to remove it. Brief but divine.

I couldn't have hoped for more.

Without dressing, she turns for the door, upstage. The light of the corridor is brighter than the room, and her bare back is momentarily clear and crisp within my sight as she leaves.

I catch my breath, taking the opportunity to shift the weight on my knees. For the first time, I realise they've become sore. The skin feels angry against the rough carpet. I contemplate lying flat across the bed, bringing myself closer to the aperture between my curtains. I weigh up the risks. My profile being made out against the white walls of my bedroom: improbable at this hour; it's only getting darker. An errant glint from one of the lenses: seems unlikely, though there's no way to really know. Fucking up the focus by changing position, or needing to refocus at a vital moment: yes, actually. That happens. Save for having my own lights flicked on, revealing my position, it's the worst scenario I can imagine. I decide it's not worth it.

The room opposite is still empty. I examine the scene for some minutes, studying the houseplants on the shelf and the dreamcatcher dangling above them. Photographs pinned to the wall are much too small, but I can make out the words on an out-of-date poster for a jazz festival: Sibiu 2004.

This feels like a bathroom trip of the getting-ready variety to me. I try to picture the scene as accurately as I think I can. A shower now seems unlikely; she's only just put moisturiser on. Summer dress and no shower suggests meeting friends somewhere casual, probably less ritual than preparing for a date. Her hair was pinned up in a functional style; I suppose it could be a factor in what's taking so long? But for a casual meet-up she could go either way. Food? Not topless, surely -- think of the crumbs.

And then she's back, mascara in hand. Her breasts sway slightly as she strides up to the mirror. She looks at herself straight on, then tilts her head a little. She moves closer, checking her jawline. The blemish is gone, concealer I presume. Apparently satisfied with her work, she begins applying mascara to one eye, and then the other, and then

Fuck.

She's looking right at me.

I freeze.

She can't, can she?

Whatever she's seen, it's caused her to look right at my window. My mind races, searching for other explanations. I shrink my neck between my shoulders, as if it will somehow obscure my profile further. But I can't look away. If she's spotted me it'll be too obvious. Fuck. She's put the mascara down and her arm is now guarding her breasts. This isn't what I wanted. She's at the window, looking up. I hold still. If it's the glint of a lens I figure at least I can pretend to be an object -- after all, all signs of life are downstairs. Someone would have to be really fucked up to be hiding up here in the dark, wouldn't they?

She's looking down into the street, watching carefully. I know it's empty. There's nothing here, just go back as you were. I pray to God it was just a feeling, easily allayed. We've all had a feeling. I realise I've been holding my breath and begin to let it out, minding that I don't relax too much. Don't think, just breathe.

She steps back from the window, dropping her arm from her chest. I watch her relax again. She picks up the mascara and returns to the mirror. Fuck. Thank fuck. She's done, and she blinks for herself as if giving her lashes a test run. Her lips purse and she pulls back her shoulders, allowing herself a moment of pleasure in her appearance. I'm pleased for her; she is beautiful.

She removes the red and white dress from its hanger and lifts it over her head once more. She pauses to pick up her phone. She holds still, very nearly dressed, the light illuminating the bust of her dress. She puts the phone down again and returns to zipping herself up. She barely seems to take a look at the finished article before she reaches past the mirror to the curtain, drawing it across the window in a single motion.

And with that, she is gone. I drop the binoculars from my hands and rest my face on the bed, picturing again her golden shoulders, the subtle bounce of her breasts, the skin of her stomach as she stretches her arms above her head, the out-of-date jazz festival poster. Sibiu 2004. What's 2004 got to do with anything?

I push myself up off the bed and off my knees. There's a sharp soreness as the feeling returns to them, supplanted in my attention by the sudden realisation of the wetness, now cold, in my shorts. When did that happen?

I make my way downstairs and back into the aggressively bright living room. I flick the main light off and pick up my phone. There's a message. It's from my neighbour. Fuck.

"I'll catch you next time, pervert."