Window
It was an accident.
The light illuminating her room hit her at just the right angle - the rest of her body was given a unearthly glow. An unearthly glow for an unearthly woman. It was without a doubt that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, with her flowing hair and firm body and angelic facial structure. He held his gaze on her for a few moments longer, counting 1-2-3 in his head. At 10:30, the angel reached over and twisted the knob on her lamp, killing the lights and laying down for the night.
He didn't mean to start looking in her window. It was a total accident, total chance. Glancing up from his book one night, a flash of milky white skin had caught his eye. The stupid woman next door had left her light on and her curtains open, inviting all of the neighborhood to have a look. Trying to ignore what he knew was full frontal nudity, the man huffed at his book and hissed at his cat, busied his hands by clearing off his night table and smoothing out the bed sheets. Anything rather than look up and take advantage of the vulnerable and possibly retarded new neighbor. But finally, he succumbed to male nature and looked up to her window, eyes wide and heart racing, as he saw she had laid down in her bed. She was writing something, he could see her brow furrowing and her pen racing across the paper. The lighting was perfect, her face was perfect, and from that moment on, it burned to take his eyes off her.
So you see, this entire thing was unintentional.
But as time went by and the man's personal loneliness grew, the idyllic and naive woman became his object of obsession. He became familiar with her night time routine, with her actions and facial expressions and habits. She was amazing in the way she never did anything barbaric or disgusting, always writing, singing, or simply staring straight ahead, looking at nothing, presumably thinking. Her lights went out at ten thirty, always, no sooner, no later. Once the lights went out, her room was pitch black, and her house became nothing special, looking exactly like the rest of the houses on the block. Quiet, boring, impersonal.
She only saw him once, or so he thought. It was a normal night. He went up to his room at 9:00, turning out all his lights and sitting in the chair he placed just below his window, staring straight up at her window, waiting for his angel. He stroked the side of his face, thinking about how close he was to her, yet how far. Thinking about the way her face twisted when she was confused. How she had the strange nervous tic of smoothing and fluffing out her hair, even when there was no one around to please and seemingly nothing wrong. But while he was lost in these thoughts, suddenly, he sensed something was wrong. Instead of her figure blotting out a little of the light, most of the light was gone. The man's head shot up, alarmed, and he got his very first up-close glimpse of his angel's face. Her nose was long, and her eyes were larger-than-life; they didn't seem to fit on her face. Her mouth was small and her lips were large; another unnatural feature. But it all came together, however mixed it may be, and she was stunning. But now the unnatural features were scrunched up and shocked. And she was staring straight into the man's window, straight down at his face.
Realizing his error, the man shot to the floor, face mere inches from the carpeting, balancing on two hands on either side of his body. He felt an almost exhilarating sort of panic go through his body. Holding his breath, as if the angel could hear him, and closed his eyes to ward off his tears. He had blown it all, she'd be calling the police just about now, the sirens would sound soon, he'd be in jail for the rest of his life. After that thought, the panic got worse and his eyes flew open automatically as he exhaled, letting out the fetid, scared air from his lungs. With a start, the man realized that the familiar square of light on his carpet was gone, meaning the angel's lights were shut off. He raised his head meekly, looking up as if reprimanded. Looking towards her house, he saw her bedroom light was off and the house had gone back to being impersonal and dark. The clock on his nightstand read 10:32.
But that was months ago. The woman had not broken her routine since then, and neither had the man. From 9:00 until 10:30 he sat in his chair underneath the window, staring unflinchingly and wondering at her beauty and curious actions, marveling in her golden hair and furrowing brow, loving every part of her he could see. But as time went on, he began to feel the strains of loneliness in his heart and gut, reminding him his angel was not here and was not coming. The weight of unrequited love sat on his shoulders, and as he began to formulate a plan, his logic twisted itself further inside his mind, giving him ideas and nudges in the wrong directions, making his crackpot plan sound brilliant and genius. He was trapped in his head. Feeling the burn of love at the center of his very being, the lonely, twisted man straightened out his bedcovers, laying his head down on his one simple pillow, smiling because of his one recurring thought.
Tomorrow, he'd be able to tell her everything.
Whether she wanted to hear it or not.
He didn't mean to start looking in her window. It was a total accident, total chance. Glancing up from his book one night, a flash of milky white skin had caught his eye. The stupid woman next door had left her light on and her curtains open, inviting all of the neighborhood to have a look. Trying to ignore what he knew was full frontal nudity, the man huffed at his book and hissed at his cat, busied his hands by clearing off his night table and smoothing out the bed sheets. Anything rather than look up and take advantage of the vulnerable and possibly retarded new neighbor. But finally, he succumbed to male nature and looked up to her window, eyes wide and heart racing, as he saw she had laid down in her bed. She was writing something, he could see her brow furrowing and her pen racing across the paper. The lighting was perfect, her face was perfect, and from that moment on, it burned to take his eyes off her.
So you see, this entire thing was unintentional.
But as time went by and the man's personal loneliness grew, the idyllic and naive woman became his object of obsession. He became familiar with her night time routine, with her actions and facial expressions and habits. She was amazing in the way she never did anything barbaric or disgusting, always writing, singing, or simply staring straight ahead, looking at nothing, presumably thinking. Her lights went out at ten thirty, always, no sooner, no later. Once the lights went out, her room was pitch black, and her house became nothing special, looking exactly like the rest of the houses on the block. Quiet, boring, impersonal.
She only saw him once, or so he thought. It was a normal night. He went up to his room at 9:00, turning out all his lights and sitting in the chair he placed just below his window, staring straight up at her window, waiting for his angel. He stroked the side of his face, thinking about how close he was to her, yet how far. Thinking about the way her face twisted when she was confused. How she had the strange nervous tic of smoothing and fluffing out her hair, even when there was no one around to please and seemingly nothing wrong. But while he was lost in these thoughts, suddenly, he sensed something was wrong. Instead of her figure blotting out a little of the light, most of the light was gone. The man's head shot up, alarmed, and he got his very first up-close glimpse of his angel's face. Her nose was long, and her eyes were larger-than-life; they didn't seem to fit on her face. Her mouth was small and her lips were large; another unnatural feature. But it all came together, however mixed it may be, and she was stunning. But now the unnatural features were scrunched up and shocked. And she was staring straight into the man's window, straight down at his face.
Realizing his error, the man shot to the floor, face mere inches from the carpeting, balancing on two hands on either side of his body. He felt an almost exhilarating sort of panic go through his body. Holding his breath, as if the angel could hear him, and closed his eyes to ward off his tears. He had blown it all, she'd be calling the police just about now, the sirens would sound soon, he'd be in jail for the rest of his life. After that thought, the panic got worse and his eyes flew open automatically as he exhaled, letting out the fetid, scared air from his lungs. With a start, the man realized that the familiar square of light on his carpet was gone, meaning the angel's lights were shut off. He raised his head meekly, looking up as if reprimanded. Looking towards her house, he saw her bedroom light was off and the house had gone back to being impersonal and dark. The clock on his nightstand read 10:32.
But that was months ago. The woman had not broken her routine since then, and neither had the man. From 9:00 until 10:30 he sat in his chair underneath the window, staring unflinchingly and wondering at her beauty and curious actions, marveling in her golden hair and furrowing brow, loving every part of her he could see. But as time went on, he began to feel the strains of loneliness in his heart and gut, reminding him his angel was not here and was not coming. The weight of unrequited love sat on his shoulders, and as he began to formulate a plan, his logic twisted itself further inside his mind, giving him ideas and nudges in the wrong directions, making his crackpot plan sound brilliant and genius. He was trapped in his head. Feeling the burn of love at the center of his very being, the lonely, twisted man straightened out his bedcovers, laying his head down on his one simple pillow, smiling because of his one recurring thought.
Tomorrow, he'd be able to tell her everything.
Whether she wanted to hear it or not.
♠ ♠ ♠
Oldoldold.