I Watched Them Through the Window

I never meant to become the kind of girl who watches. It started the second week I lived in my little studio above the laundromat, the one with the ancient radiator and the window that looks straight across a narrow alley into somebody else's life.

Their blinds were always open. That's important. I want you to know I didn't go looking for it. I was just sitting on my mattress on the floor, eating noodles out of the pot because I hadn't bought bowls yet, and I glanced up and saw them. A couple, maybe on their couch, tangled up in each other like the movie had been forgotten completely. She had her legs draped over his lap and his hand was up under her shirt and I froze with the noodles halfway to my mouth.

I told myself to look away. I really did. But I didn't.

The next night I ate dinner by the window. The night after that, I moved my mattress. Not all the way across the room, I'm not a complete animal, but close enough that I could lean against the wall and see straight across the alley into their warm little living room while my own apartment stayed dark. It became my favorite part of the day. I'd get home, change into the softest thing I owned, and wait for their lights to come on.

They were so free with each other. That's what got me. He would come home and she'd meet him at the door and within minutes they'd be on that couch, hands everywhere, her laughing with her head thrown back while he kissed down her neck. Sometimes she'd straddle him right there, and I could see the way her body moved over him, slow and greedy, and I would press my thighs together so hard they ached.

I started keeping my vibrator in the nightstand drawer by the window. That's when I knew I'd crossed some line, when I carried it across the room and set it next to me like I was settling in for a show. The first night I used it while watching them, I felt so filthy I could barely breathe, which somehow made it a thousand times better. They were kissing, his hands sliding down to cup her, and I slipped my own hand under the waistband of my sleep shorts and just matched their rhythm from across the alley.

I got braver. Or weaker. One rainy night, the kind where the rain streaks down my window and blurs everything into gold and amber, they went further than I'd ever seen. She stood up and pulled her dress over her head, right there in front of the open blinds, and he went to his knees in front of her. I actually whimpered out loud. My fingers were already inside me, and I watched him worship her with his mouth while she gripped his hair, and I came so hard I had to bite my own knuckle to stay quiet.

That's the night she looked up.

I swear it happened. Her head tipped back and then her eyes drifted, unfocused at first, straight across the alley to my dark window. And even in the dark, even through the rain, I knew she saw me. I knew because she didn't look away. She held my gaze while he kept going, and the smallest, wickedest smile curved across her mouth, and she arched her back a little more, like she was performing for me now.

I nearly died. I also nearly came again on the spot.

After that, everything changed. I couldn't prove she knew, but I felt it every night. Sometimes I'd catch her glancing toward my window mid-kiss, and I'd get this hot rush all the way down to my toes, like we shared a secret the two men in our lives knew nothing about. I started wearing less to the window. My thinnest camisole. Nothing under it. I'd let the lamplight catch me just enough, sitting there with my knees drawn up and my hand sliding slow between my legs, wondering if she could make out my shape in the dark.

Last Thursday it rained again, and they gave me the best night yet. He bent her over the arm of that couch, her palms flat on the cushions, and took her from behind while she stared straight across the alley. Straight at me. I had my vibrator pressed right where I needed it and I watched her mouth fall open, watched her body shake, and I finished with her, both of us shuddering at the same second, separated by thirty feet of rainy air.

When it was over, she lifted one hand, just barely, and waved. Two fingers. The tiniest wave in the world.

I haven't stopped thinking about it. I sit at my window every night now with my heart pounding, waiting for their lights, wondering what she'll do next. Wondering if one of these nights she'll mouth something to me, or press her palm to her own glass, or invite me to stop watching from so far away.

I don't know if I'm brave enough for that. But god, I want to find out.