She doesn't realize I watch her yet. It's better that way, she knows me, not
well, but enough to say hello if she accidentally meets me as I trail around in
her wake. It's convenient to live in one of those mid-range cities, no more than
40,000 people. You get to recognize faces so you're not surprised to see a
familiar pair of eyes, and if maybe they are always looking at you, she can
dismiss it as someone recognizing a familiar face they don't have a name to put
to yet. That yet is very important. I watch her, maybe someday after she stops
dating the pretty boy, I'll talk to her but for now just watching her is enough.
She lives across the street from me, third floor. I didn't notice her until I
woke up unusually early one morning. I was drinking a cup of coffee hoping that
the rare shot of caffeine would prepare me for an ungodly 7 in the morning wake
up. I had decided to apply for a temporary teaching position at the local
university. The only interview I could get was at 9 am. I like to be prepared
about these things, and 2 hours seemed enough time to quell any butterflies. I
took the cup to my window and stared out into the early morning street, there
really wasn't anybody outside, except garbage people. I discarded running
outside to give them my garbage bag, it could wait a few more days. A slow
movement of white caught my eye directly across my window, she was bouncing
around in front of her television in white panties and a white sport bra. She
had brown hair in a pony tail bouncing along to a rhythm, I couldn't hear from
where I watched. I smiled into the cup, as she bent down from the waist, she
seemed to be doing the beginning stretches before the serious workout began. She
seemed extremely enthusiastic to be bouncing around like that during the
warm-up. I watched her bounce, strain, and pump her way through her work-out. My
coffee was cold before I took another sip, there are better things than caffeine
to wake you up, I guess. She walked out of her room, and I studied what I could
from my viewpoint. I seemed to be looking into her living room, I could see most
of it from where I stood amazingly enough. The dimensions of my apartment
building seem to be strange because even though I was on the same floor as her,
I seemed to be looking slightly down into her apartment. I walked to my right to
stare out the other window in my apartment that faced her, it gave me almost the
exact same view as the first window, but this one looked into the right-hand
window on her wall. I smiled to myself this could be interesting. I took a quick
shower, changed into my 'interview' clothes, and walked to stand just inside my
building door, staring out its window waiting for her. She came out of her
apartment, I got lucky, somehow her car seemed to be parked directly in front of
my building. 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 hard look
showed me what I wanted. Violently dark eyes, the hair was actually a light
shade of honeyed-brown instead of the dark-brown it had seemed to me from far
away, she was, well I guess lush would be the best word. Very few women can be
described as luscious, with every thing that makes her a woman being on the
border-line of womanly to comical. Not perfect bodies, but each part just a
little over the top without being obscene. Breast, a touch to big for her frame,
hips a hair to wide for her height, etc.etc. As I walked from her before she
looked to me, I wondered at the burgeoning fascination, I like athletic rather
than well, mother-earthly. And so it began. Finding myself crossing her path
time and again. Buying her a drink, as I left the restaurant she was just
walking into, without letting her see who was watching. Walking down the street
on a Saturday morning, passing her, turning my head to blow in her ear, maybe it
was a just a breeze. Surely, no one would blow in some stranger's ear in the
middle of the street. Sitting behind her, on the bi-weekly movie she watches
alone, as relaxation. The ritualistic good-nights at my window. The
early-morning cup of coffee and aerobics. She's dating a pretty boy, maybe
that's why I've kept my distance. Her height, thin, shoulder-length blonde hair.
The type most males are taught to torture in high school. I've wondered why she
goes out with him. She..She.. the best way to say it is that she overpowers his
presence. Then again, it could just be me. It was during the fifth night of
ritualistic good-nights that I discovered it. I walked to the window, and saw
her and the pretty boy dancing to a slow rhythm, swaying really. Well, she was
swaying. I watched the motion of her hips enthralled. He wasn't taking advantage
of the dance. That slow, alone in her apartments, the rhythm she was moving to
seemed made to run your hands over her, to touch wherever she allowed, and to
hope each passing of the hand convinced her to allow a bit more of her to be
explored. She was in charge. It would be immensely interesting to struggle with
her for control of the passion. I smiled as he just let her push him down to the
floor. She started a slow-strip, I .. I don't really remember much of it, the
slow-dance, different articles of clothing being gone all of a sudden. The heat
from her, I swear I could feel the heat from her even across the street. He had
to move, he had to move. But he didn't he just lay there, as she straddle his
hips, he raised his hands up to toy with her nipples. She undid his pants and
slid down his legs, trailing pants, and nipping newly exposed skin. He had to
move.. He wasn't wearing underwear, or maybe she pulled it down with the pants.
She crawled up until she had the alignment, she seemed to want. She had to go to
him. I watched her reach between her legs, and place him carefully. Her head
rolled back in that slow sigh of passion that a woman uses if you're lucky when
a part of you is slowly becoming a part of her. He still did not move.. She
started a punishingly slow rotation of her hips on him. I turned from the
window, and went to bed. I had a 7 a.m. appointment the next day. From the looks
of him, she would have enough energy and some to spare for a workout the next
day. I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling playing that slow roll of the head
back, mouth open to let a small gasp of surprise and pleasure escape. I imagined
the motion, the sound, but this time I wasn't watching it from across the
street, I was beneath her. Beneath, for every roll, for every sharp intake of
breath, and each release of air in a sigh of pleasure.
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