kate
He stood, as he had every night for a fortnight, with his back to her window, leaning against the lamp post. The light at the top of that post acted like a spotlight, turning the unknown stranger into an inadvertent solo act, one she’d found impossible to turn away from once it had been discovered.
She wondered how long he’d come to that spot before she’d first seen him. He came, regardless of the weather, seemingly impervious to cold, wind and rain. One night, there’d been fog obscuring him, the light itself barely pushing its way through the soupy mist, but she’d watched anyway. Somehow, she knew he stood there, where she couldn’t see him.
As it happened, she was wrong about that night.
Each night, she waited a little longer before stepping away from her window to find her bed. Each morning, she woke, more tired than the one before, having had less sleep. The sleep she did manage to obtain was restless, fitful, fraught with dreams of darkness and damp.
He watched her, as she watched him, though she could not know he saw. He never moved, not even an inch, for to do so would be to lose sight of her. When he stood thus, his back to her window, he could see her image, clear and sharp, in the reflecting ball that stood on a stand in the garden across the street. A tiny shift to the left, and she became distorted, her figure long and thin and curved around the horizon of the sphere. If he slouched, she disappeared below. So he stood, quiet and still, every single night in the pool of light thrown from the lamp at the top of the post.
She hadn’t the benefit of a reflecting ball. It wouldn’t have helped, if she had. There was nothing to see.
This night, she gave up early, and he smiled. Smiled because he’d learned, the night of the fog, the manner of her retiring. He’d watched, moving from one window to the other, the way she moved through the house, from the place she stood, nightly, to the kitchen for a glass of water. The way she placed that glass, ever so precisely, open end downward in the top rack of the dishwasher. She moved from there to the bedroom, turned down her bed, smoothing the coverlet back at an angle so that she could later slide easily between the sheets. She went, then, to the bathroom and ran her bathwater. She washed her face and brushed her teeth while the water ran, then coiled her dark curly hair on top of her head.
The water still running, she began to disrobe, neatly folding each article of clothing as it left her body. She placed each piece neatly on the closed lid of the toilet, then stood, once more, before the long mirror. She looked at herself, cupped her breasts in her hands. Her nipples stood out proudly, hard pink tips on milky soft globes. Her eyes closed, and her right hand slipped lower, her fingertips gliding through the soft downy hair to the center of her body. She slid a finger inside, then brought it back upward to rub in slow, maddening circles. She opened her eyes as her left hand found its way to her right breast, pinching and teasing that nubbin while the finger on her clit began to rub, harder, faster, more furiously. Her mouth parted, and he could see her wet, pink tongue dart from between her teeth to lick her lower lip.
The water flowed, nearing the top now, and Kate’s need became urgent. She threw back her head, pinched hard, rubbed hard and came hard, her breath coming in short quick gasps that ending in a high-pitched keening cry.
Watching that night, the night of the fog, he knew this would be the moment he’d need, the time for her to let him in.
He’d stayed a bit, watched her slip into the water and have her bath. He’d watched as the humidity turned the tendrils that escaped the knot on the top of her head into damp, tight curls. Watched her step out, all pink from the heat, to dry her steaming body with a large, white towel. Watched her slide into bed, nude, settle back into her nest of pillows, close her eyes and slumber.
She did not sleep well, but that would come. He crept away to wait. The fog would come again.
Five nights elapsed and her routine did not vary. Not until the last, when she gave up early and went to bed. He didn’t watch. He simply smiled. Perhaps tonight her exhaustion would allow her to sleep deeply enough to become refreshed.
***
The fog returned, but slowly. This time, she could see him there, leaning against his lampost in the darkness, his outline fuzzy and indistinct. But the fog was insistent and soon he was gone to her. Kate considered standing there longer, thought she could see him if the wind would pick up and the fog swirl away, but the longer she waited, the thicker it grew. She thought, perhaps, she could go out and quietly approach. Surely, she wouldn’t have to draw too near. Certainly she could see him before he saw her.
She left her window and opened the door. Her heart pounded … afraid. But she needed to see him, needed that last glimpse. It had become part of her nightly routine, this time they spent together, even if he did not know she was there. And so she stepped outside, left the safety of her home, and walked on silent feet toward the gaslight on the corner. She drew near, near enough to make out the detail of the post.
Near enough to know he wasn’t there.
Half a scream tore from her throat and she turned to run back to her house. Her feet, no longer silent, slapped the ground and echoed into the fog, carrying her back to the warmth of her bed. She had nearly reached the door when she saw him, smiling from the steps that led to her porch.
“I came to see you, but you weren’t here,” he said.
“We must have passed in the fog,” replied Kate, her voice hesitant, uncertain.
He nodded and stood. Kate took a step back, then stopped at the disappointment on his face. “Why do you stand, each night, by the lamp?” she asked.
“Because you look for me there.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“What else do you know?”
He waited. Then, “May I come in and tell you?”
Kate hesitated, then nodded. He walked up the steps, opened the door, and allowed her to precede him inside. Nicholas smiled out into the fog, then closed and locked the heavy portal.
An easy invitation.
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