Stalkings

She did not know that I watched her.

It was better that way, more meaningful.

She knew me enough to smile a hello if she saw me as I was drawn in her wake. Living in a town of 40,000 has its conveniences: people recognize each other so there is no surprise at meeting a familiar pair of eyes, and if mine were always watching her then she could dismiss it as recognizing a face you could not put a name to yet.

I watched and thought that someday when she stopped dating the pretty boy I would talk to her, even if watching felt like it could be enough.

She lived across the street on the third floor of a brownstone. I did not notice her until I looked out my window early one morning. I had an early interview for a temporary teaching position at the local community college. I did not need the job but teaching young writers helped spur my own creativity. I had gotten up earlier than necessary to quell the interview butterflies. I took a cup of coffee to my window and stared out into the morning. There was nobody outside except garbage men. I thought about running outside to give them my bag, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. A flash of white caught my eye making me turn my head towards it. She was bouncing in front of her television in white panties and a matching sports bra. Her, just below the shoulder, brown hair was in a ponytail and bouncing to the rhythm of her movement.

The brownstones around town usually had two twenty-four inch wide windows with a 36-inch separation between them. Her building was different: there was only one window taking up the space that other buildings put two in. My window was slightly above hers so I had an undisturbed field of view into her entire living room.

I watched her bounce, strain, and pump her way through her workout with the unbridled enthusiasm of an early riser. My coffee was cold before I took another sip. I discovered that energetic aerobics watching has some of the same effects as caffeine.

She finished her workout and moved deeper into her apartment. I must have been avoiding the peeping urge before, because as I studied my view I was amazed at the detail I could get into her apartment. I guess seeing her brought everything into focus.

I took a shower, changed into my interview clothes, and went to stand just inside my building door. Misfortune had bought me the building so I did not have to worry about anyone coming up behind me. My parents died in one of those faulty equipment industrial accidents. The bean counters thought the payout would be less than making financially unsound changes for something that might never be a problem. My parents had been successful and because of their background had led frugal lives. Their estate alone might have meant I only had to work to keep myself busy.

My uncle did not take his brother and sister-in-law dying in a preventable accident well. My father had paid for his law school and bought him a house as a graduation present so my uncle had been allowed to follow his heart as a left-wing legal crusader. The accident changed that for the time it took him to make everyone involved pay for my being orphaned and for losing a big brother he had idolized. The companies knew they were in trouble; we had the money to live well and the legal help was motivated and free. They kept coming back to my uncle with larger and larger settlements. I think he only stopped because he thought he might be setting an example of greed for me.

I used the second and third floor of the building for myself. My uncle's daughter lived in the first floor apartment with her new husband as the family did not want me to live alone.

She came out of her building, and I got lucky. She had parked her car in front of my steps. I opened the door, walked down the steps, and at a brisk pace passed in front of her car just as she got to the door. One quick look showed me what I wanted to see: violently dark eyes, the hair a light shade of honey brown instead of the dark brown I saw from my apartment. She was six inches shorter than me, and her body was lush. It is a disappointment that so few women can be described as voluptuously attractive. She did not have a socially defined perfect body, but you could not convince a teenage boy she was flawed. She was short and each part that described her as a woman was straw on a camel's back. Her breasts were too big for her frame, hips a couple of inches too wide, a waist a bit too tiny, thighs thick enough to squeeze the breath from your body, lips ripe, it went on and on. She was not mother-earthly, but she broadcast enough femininity to make pagans.

I walked away before she turned to look at me. I wondered at the speed my fascination had risen. I was more into the athletic than the baby-making hips type.

That was how it began.

I crossed her path time and time again. I bought her a drink as I left the restaurant she was walking into. I would walk down the main street on a Saturday morning and recognize her from a block and half away. We would pass close enough for me to smell her perfume. I spent a day finding that perfume. I liked to open the bottle at night letting the scent invade my bedroom. There was something of her that mixed with the perfume, but just the perfume was enough if I closed my eyes.

She went alone every two weeks to watch a movie and relax. I understood; it was relaxing to sit behind her.

There was now a ritualistic goodnight at my window. She had her own bedtime rituals, and they became a part of mine.

I woke up early on her aerobic days and had a cup of coffee by the window. A full time writer does not like to get up early in the morning, but my eyes snapped opened at the every day at the right time. I did not need the coffee, but it was cold comfort.

The worst was watching her with the pretty boy that she dated. He was why I kept my distance, or at least he was my excuse. He was her height and thin with shoulder-length blonde hair. I could almost feel the disdain he worked so hard to exude. I wondered why she went out with him when she overpowered his presence. From where I stood, she was too much woman for him.

The fifteenth night of my nighttime ritual was when I met him. I had walked to the window to say goodnight. She was dancing with the pretty boy, and I burned myself with the coffee in surprise. Not at him, she was swaying to the rhythm of her heartbeat.

I watched the motion of her hips enthralled. He was not taking advantage. A slow dance, alone in her apartment, the rhythm seemed made to run your hands over her, to touch wherever she allowed, and to hope that each pass convinced her to allow more of her to be explored.

He did nothing.

She was in charge. I wished I could wrestle with her for control of that passion.

Surprisingly, it was the first time I thought of being with her.

I smiled as he just let her push him down to the floor She started a slow strip. I do not remember much of our first time. I remember the movement of her hips, my heartbeat in my head. I remember the heat from her; I could feel it through our windows and across the street.

He killed me with not moving.

He lay passively as she straddled his hips. His hands should have been on her nipples, on her hips, reaching around to grab her full ass. She undid his pants, moved down his body while trailing clothing nipping newly exposed skin.

He lay there as if his pleasure were her job. He was not wearing underwear, or maybe she pulled them down with the pants. She crawled up until she had the alignment she wanted.

She had to go to him!

His hands did not come down to grab her hips and guide her, smoothing the transition into her body. I hated him in that moment for wasting the opportunity she was.

She reached between her legs and placed him carefully. Her head rolled back in a slow sigh of pleasure that screamed her enjoyment of the moment that a man became a part of her.

He did not move.

She rotated her hips in punishing slow circles.

I turned from the window and went to bed. I had my first eight am class at the community college. They had to be serious students if they were taking a creative writing class that early so I wanted to be at my best. Staying by the window would have done nothing but increase my frustration. He was waste of heterosexuality; even the voyeuristic pleasure of watching the object of your desire getting it was missing.

I stared at the ceiling in my room playing the film of how it should be. The slow roll of her head backwards, her mouth opening as a small gasp of surprise and pleasure escaped. I imagined the motion, the sound, but I was in her apartment underneath her. Beneath her for every sharp intake of breath, for every squeezing of her pussy around me as she got a step closer to her pleasure, for every scream as she peaked, for every orgasm I could draw from her body with mine.

He changed nothing.

My bedroom stayed scented with her perfume. I drank my cold coffee on the right mornings. I watched a movie every two weeks. I ate in the same restaurants, and she drank the same wine. I whispered goodnight every night.

I left her their privacy though.

My family began to worry. I had isolated myself more than ever and even the teaching position did nothing to relieve their fears. I had been close to my parents. I had been old enough to understand everything I lost but too young to handle it. My family could not help me; they also hurt. Before her, I made the effort to playact involvement but no longer felt the need to make believe if I had her in my life.

My cousin tried to make everything better with a series of ambush dates. She would corner me in the hallway on my way to class or get her husband to ask me to stop by for dinner. There would be a different female that I had to entertain at the table to go with the food. I never saw any of them past the dinner encounters, regardless of any pleading on my cousin's part.

It was five months after the first time I saw them having sex that we collided.

I had the writing flow going and was almost finished with a short story for one of those 'best of science fiction' collections. It was the first time I had been asked and thought I could gain readers if it was the right story. I had written three books; one had critical acclaim and the other two had my publisher doing good science fiction sales cartwheels. I had left class and gone right to my writing. I stayed there finishing the outline and half of the first draft before I realized I was late for our Friday goodnight.

I walked to the window expecting not to see her; the first time that would have happened in months. I looked outside and was surprised to see them standing in her living room facing each other. Their stances were hostile. He was yelling at her, backing her up, but I could see the explosion building. I would have turned away except as I said goodnight, she lost it. She was vibrant in anger. She waved her arms around, and the same passion that awakened during the dance came alive again. I could tell she was winning because his face was burning. He tried to interrupt but she would not allow it. She pointed towards her door obviously telling him to get out. I smiled at her knowing if he left she would follow him outside to apologize.

I do not know what caused it, what she might have said.

He slapped her with the suddenness of a snake and with the same intentions. She had not been expecting it so it turned her hard. Her hand came to the side of her face; she was stunned. I could hear his words in my mind.

"Fuck you, bitch!"

He stalked out of her apartment.

I was moving before I realized what was happening. I opened my closet and grabbed a pair of work gloves I used while doing small repairs on the building. I opened my door and moved slowly down the steps. I knew where he was going. The lizard part of my mind extracted the knowledge but did not allow the connections that would have made me doubt my actions.

I knew the path he would take to his home. I was half a block behind him when I turned outside my building towards him. The measurements were exact, every few feet I gained inches on him. The chase was so controlled that he never noticed my approach.

There was a narrow alley two blocks from his house. It was off a block with shops that closed early on Fridays. The lizard was better at timing and planning than I could ever be.

The pretty boy felt the menace at the last second and started to turn. I grabbed the back of his neck and put my other hand on the small of his back. I used the grip on his neck to bend him down and with a running start shoved him into a garbage dumpster. He tried to protect himself and got an arm up fast enough to not be knocked unconscious. I had followed behind his body to catch the bounce. He came off the dumpster, dropping away from it only meet my kick into the lower part of his ribcage. I gave him another kick higher up on his body which forced him against the dumpster. I stopped for a second and it was enough time for him to start to turn his head towards me.

The lizard part was still handling the planning and timing. He came into position to look at me, and at the same instant my fist crashed into him turning his face towards the ground. I kicked him again to keep him stunned. I picked him up by the belt of his pants and his shirt so that I could shove him into the wall by the dumpster. This gave me enough room to move to his other side. The lizard waited for him to start to get up before I kicked him in the same lower portion of his ribcage I had assaulted on the other side. I kicked him high again but had to lift him myself to punch this side of his face. He fell to the ground, and I took two steps back to give him time to recover. He lay on the ground and I thought I heard sobs.

I walked away from him without looking around to see if anyone had seen us. I did not care either way; some deep part of me was satisfied with what I had done. The beating had been necessary for my world to remain cohesive. I could not have stopped that slap, but I had not allowed it to go unanswered.

I had left the door to my building open. I shook my head at how little I had noticed on the way to the alley. I closed the door and checked our mailboxes. My cousin and I left them open since nobody else lived with us. I dumped the junk mail in a garbage can by the door.

I walked slowly up the stairs thinking about giving her up. I did not have to think about what any psychologist would have to say about that. It was the right time to approach her, and instead I was thinking of not seeing her again.

I closed the door behind me as I entered my apartment. I sat down at my desk before I noticed I was not alone. It was probably because the lizard had not gone completely to sleep; a feeling made up of one part in five hundred thousand, a scent dissimilar only to me from the perfume that painted my bedroom. I did not smell her, but my body did.

I walked to the front of the apartment with my lungs burning. She was staring out my window down to the street. I walked to the back of my sofa and put my hands on it. We stood there for a couple of minutes. She watched nothing on the street below and I thought about everything I could not say.

She turned her face towards me and stared. Her features were too strong for her to be just beautiful. She was wearing the black dress that she had put on for their usual Friday night date.

"Your doors were open," she said softly. She leaned her head to the side against the window frame and studied me.

I nodded.

"You saw, didn't you?" she asked. Her voice was almost a whisper, but all of my senses were focused on her. I was bathing in the mixture of her perfume and something else that called me.

I nodded again. There was nothing to say about what had happened to her, except it should not have.

She walked to the small table beside the door where I usually dropped my things as I walked into the apartment. I had not been thinking so the gloves had been placed on top. She picked them up and studied them closely. She brought them to her face and inhaled their smell. I walked over to her and pulled them gently from her hands. She looked at me surprised. I gave her what I hoped was a gentle smile. She had seen the blood that stained the gloves. I walked by her to open the closet door and placed the gloves in their real home. She watched me over her shoulder. She nodded what seemed like acceptance when I turned back to her.

She walked around the living room touching the few things I owned. It would have been an exaggeration to call my apartment Spartan. She picked up the few things small enough to and studied them. She looked at me after each item as if her study brought her closer to some truth about me.

I satisfied myself with watching her.

She moved back to the window and sat on the windowsill leaning back against the glass. She tilted her head towards her shoulder and studied me again. I did not feel uncomfortable.

"So you like watching me in the mornings?" she asked straightforward. I was surprised that there was no judgment in her voice, only curiosity.

I moved so that I was closer to her, on the wall near the door. I put my hands behind me and leaned back. I looked at the ceiling thinking about how to traverse the minefield in front of me. I went with what felt right.

"It's a reason to wake up," I told her. She smiled at me and I felt the lethargy of a cat stretching its claws coming from her.

"I have to admit; it's a reason to get up and do my workout," she said watching for my reaction.

I had to smile a little at that.

"And at night, why do you watch me then?" she asked moving to the side of the window that was closer to me.

I looked at her feet and traveled up her body. She was blushing when our eyes touched.

"I like saying goodnight to you."

"But you're not saying it to me," she pointed out.

"Does he say goodnight to you?"

I knew it was the wrong thing to say because her eyes flashed. She moved around the apartment looking at the same things she had before. I moved to her place at the window.

It was different to watch while she watched me, almost intimate.

"I see you around town a lot," she said trying a different approach.

I nodded.

"As much as I see you around town, some people would think bad things about you," she said.

"I could move away if you asked."

"I couldn't ask anyone to do that over a few glasses of wine," she dismissed the suggestion gently. She had circled the apartment until she could take my old position by the wall. She leaned her head against the wall and continued her study of me.

"I would just like..." she hesitated mid-sentence and closed her eyes in thought.

"I would just like to see you less," she continued.

"I would move away if you asked me to."

Her eyes widened as her head came down to meet my eyes. We stood there for a pair of silent minutes as she tried to take meaning from my statement.

"That's his blood on the gloves."

"Deserved," I told her turning to look out the window and into her apartment.

She moved to stand beside me.

"Have you watched us?" she turned her face to look up at me as she asked.

"Once." I admitted. I turned my face to look down at her.

"He wasn't very exciting." I continued.

"You were hoping for him to be exciting." she arched an eyebrow in a moment of humor.

"I imagine it's hard to burn against wet wood."

She laughed suddenly and moved away from me to circle the room again. She seemed lighter all of a sudden as if I had confirmed a suspicion of hers.

"Well, David," she said. "I was expecting to go out tonight, so I think it's your duty to substitute for the foolish."

She turned to look at me as I stared at her. She did the tilt her head to the side thing before she started giggling.