Author’s note: This is a two-part story posted in its completion. Some folks have given me the (very fair) critique that I over rely on miscommunication in my narratives, so I challenged myself to write one where things between the main characters are crystal clear. Thanks to everyone for continued feedback both good and bad – I Love it all!

Choosing the high rise apartment near the harbor had its downsides. Moving was god awful; I’d reserved the freight elevator on move in day, but even with my parents’ help it was a nightmare. Living on the 22nd floor meant I couldn’t do large weekly grocery shops, and had to limit myself to what I could carry. I hadn’t yet succumbed to the wheeled grocery cart I’d seen others use, but I knew it was only a matter of time. I also missed the neighborhood greenery of the older, decrepit buildings I’d lived in before. Sure, the walls had cracks, but trees through the windows and a few strategically placed indoor ferns made you forget about that.

But you couldn’t beat the view in the high rise. The city stretched out wide in front of me, the light bright and never ending, the sunsets magnificent. The bay was behind me, but on the periphery I still saw a glimmer of the harbor water, massive container ships dotting the surface. I had wanted something new and clean and all mine, and it was perfect.

But the best part was at night, when the city glimmered and the lights came on in the apartments in the building across from mine.

There were several other residential buildings, but the closest was directly in front of me, shorter than mine, but newer and more luxurious. Each apartment had floor to ceiling windows in the open concept living room and kitchen, and at night, when illuminated, I could see inside.

That first night I was truly surprised at how much I could see inside, even with the naked eye. I could see the layout and furnishings, and people moving around. It was easy to discern men from women even as small as their silhouettes were. They’d drift from room to room, cooking, watching TV, scrolling on their phones. They had to have known I could see right in. Surely they could see right into the apartments in my building at night if the lights were on.

At first I shied away from watching them, as it felt like an invasion of their privacy. But several apartments kept their curtains open almost routinely, as if unbothered by their visibility. I started watching them in the evenings, as I looked up from reading a book in my armchair, alternating between whichever scene was more interesting at the given moment.

There was an older couple, the woman in a wheelchair, but the man still spry. Their apartment was heavily furnished to the point of gaudy in a nautical style, with massive gilded framed paintings of ships, and even a white helm mounted on the wall. Every evening he cooked for her as she watched Jeopardy in the living room.

There was a big family, a couple probably in their mid-30s and a whole gaggle of kids crammed into what must be just a two or three bedroom apartment. There was a nanny too, and sometimes a housecleaner. Watching them was like watching a busy swarm of bees, except most of the bees were whirlwinds of destruction instead of productivity. They had a Christmas tree up, though it was March.

There was another couple, not exactly young and not exactly old, a hippie type. Their apartment was full of plants; one whole wall of their living room was covered in moss and small flowering planters. I saw them smoking all the time, and fighting, often spending whole evenings apart from each other. But eventually they’d make up, and have Sex with the curtains open. I recoiled in shock the first time, wondering how many other people in my building were watching them just as I was. But when the man pressed the woman’s naked body up against the glass as he took her from behind, I knew that they knew what they were doing, and enjoyed it. Their bodies weren’t tight by any means, but it was enough to make me damp between my legs, and I couldn’t help but masturbate each time I watched them. Afterwards though, not during. That was a line I hadn’t crossed.

But the person I liked to watch the most I called “Mr. Suit.” He was closer to my age, and the only person with the careless curtain habit who lived alone like I did. His apartment was stark and minimalist, dark counters, dark walls. He too was dark; he wore a charcoal gray or black tailored suit every work day without exception. I guessed he had a corporate job, he pulled crazy late hours and sometimes wasn’t home by the time I went to bed. Either that, or he was out for altogether different reasons. I rarely saw him on the weekends, and he never brought women home. His place was sterile almost, without any personal touches. I wondered if he even decorated it, or if he’d paid to have it done. Most of his cabinets were empty, and he rarely ever cooked. Most nights he brought takeaway. When he came home, he’d shed his formal layers methodically, emerging in gym shorts and sneakers and nothing else. Every day he’d work out in a mirrored bedroom converted to a home gym, with no curtains whatsoever. I was sure his building had a gym, mine did, but he chose to work out at home for precisely an hour. I know, I’d timed him.

I’d watch him working out, wishing I could see closer, knowing there’d be a sheen of sweat on his body, his dark hair damp. I wasn’t an exercise fanatic myself, in fact I hated working out, but something about watching his body flexing was an incredible turn on, even more so than the Sex couple. When he was done he’d Shower, not that I could observe that. But he came back out in pajamas, a matching set like grandpas wore, toweling his hair. Then he’d either work on his laptop at the kitchen island, or he’d lounge on the couch reading, like I did.

He was one of the few people besides myself who didn’t keep the TV blaring all evening long. I swore that faint blue light was never off in the sailing house. But I suspected he took his work home, whatever it was. When he read instead, I wished fiercely I could see the title.

On the weekends I’d go thrifting, to flea markets and sidewalk sales. I had a lot of space to fill in that new apartment, and not a lot of stuff. I was picky though, I had a particular eclectic style and could go whole days shopping and not find anything I really wanted. I kept my eye out for opera glasses or lightweight binoculars, but came up empty. But one day I saw it, a piece that would suit the sailors much more than it would me, but was beautiful nonetheless.

The vendor told me it was an antique reproduction, and launched into a long spiel about focal lengths and precision optics. I’m guessing based on the cost of the thing that he’d known to sell it hard. And it was by far the most expensive thing I’d ever bought at a flea sale, and a particularly stupid item to carry home on a metro. While I nodded encouragingly at the droning vendor, I sat in his chair, swiveling the telescope’s eyepiece over to me, the movement smooth and satisfying. I had to admit it was a beautiful object, the light teak wood and shiny brass would go well with my aesthetic. And I had the money now. I thought of Mr. Suit and his nightly exercise regimen, and my thighs clenched together. Two hours later, the telescope sat in my living room, sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

I was careful with it. I knew it was weird to watch the neighbors so intently, but borderline illegal to observe them through a fucking telescope. For all I knew, it was illegal. So I kept the telescope in one corner of my living room, an ostensible decoration to anyone visiting, and used it only at night, with my own apartment dark. The tripod stand was adjustable and I fixed it just so, sitting in my green velvet retro lounge chair, a book on my lap, a cup of tea on the armrest, settling in for a night’s entertainment.

Some nights were better than others, like when the hippie couple fucked, or the bee children made an elaborate fort. But even on a dull night, I could always rely on Mr. Suit.

The telescope was a game changer. Suddenly I could see so much more, the lines of his body, the dark locks of his hair falling across his forehead, the way his shorts stretched over his Ass and crotch as he moved around the gym. I couldn’t make out the finer points of his face, but I didn’t really want to. All I wanted was to watch that body, so different from the bodies of the men I’d been with, and to snake my hands between my legs and caress myself gently on a weekday night.

That’s precisely what I was doing one night as Mr. Suit walked around, having finished his workout and now wearing his adorably geriatric pajamas. He was on the phone, pacing, gesticulating. Whatever job he had, I was glad it wasn’t mine. As he wrapped up the call he went out on the balcony, bending to rest his forearms on the ledge and look out. It was still cold, and no one was on their balconies much. I had a brief terrifying thought that maybe he was going to jump and I sat up abruptly, almost upending my tea.

But he just looked out at my building, at my apartment, really. I turned around, gauging the light in my apartment, and saw only the hood light on in the kitchen. Surely that wasn’t enough to let him see in. But he looked out in my direction long enough that I moved the telescope back and drew the curtain, my heart thumping guiltily as I crept into bed, ignoring the unsatisfied ache in my Sex.

The next day was a Saturday, and I was out most of the day running errands. When I came home, I glanced out, as was my custom, and my attention was caught by a bright white square affixed to Mr. Suit’s living room window. Without the telescope I couldn’t make out what it was, maybe some kind of sign, and in broad daylight it was hard to tell if he was home. I wasn’t going to risk being caught with the telescope, so I went about my day. But once the sun started to set, I half drew the curtain to cover the tripod, and swiveled the eyepiece at the white square.

It was a piece of paper, and on it were 10 numbers. I recognized the first three.

It was a fucking telephone number.

I blinked hard, clearing my vision before assuring myself that yes, Mr. Suit had taped a phone number facing outward on his living room window.

He knew.

And he wanted me to call?

No fucking way. Trembling all over, I rose quickly, replacing the tripod to its home in the corner, drawing the blinds to the twinkling nightscape. I sat on the couch instead, trying in vain to concentrate on a period drama miniseries, and ended up drinking almost an entire bottle of wine just to keep my hands occupied. I went to bed vaguely nauseous, for more reasons than one.

The next day I kept my curtains drawn and left my apartment, taking the metro to the city outskirts, walking through unfamiliar parks, eating a gyro. It was sunny and nice, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that number.

What did he want?

Maybe it wasn’t even meant for me.

Was he going to call the police?

Had he seen me with my hands in my underwear, watching him lift weights?

I managed to make it till the following night to open the curtains just an inch to see if the paper was still there. Not only was it still there, now there was a second piece.

Fuck, I thought, walking to the telescope and aiming it.

On the second piece of paper was a large question mark.

So he was impatient. What would happen if I never called? Would he call the management company of my building, report me, get me evicted? Would I lose my job?

Thoughts racing, I googled the number, but came up with nothing. It was probably a fake number, the kind you got to make calls without people seeing your real number.

So that’s precisely what I did too.

Before I lost my courage, I typed a text.

Hello

Not the best opening, but it had to be better than starting with, “I’m sorry for watching you through a telescopic lens while you work out mostly naked.”

I stared at the phone for a few seconds, and when nothing happened, I felt a strange sense of relief. He wouldn’t answer. It was just a misunderstanding.

So when the phone started ringing I shrieked, dropping it on the ground like it was a Hot iron. I stared at it singing happily from the rug. It was the number from the sign. Mr. Suit was calling me.

No way was I answering that call. I barely answered calls from my family.

What felt like 30 rings later it finally stopped and I picked up the phone, setting it warily on the kitchen countertop. I almost wanted him to leave a voicemail, so I could hear his voice, but the phone didn’t chime.

Instead, the ding for a text message notification sounded, and I crept up to the phone, peering over it.

Nice Manet.

My gaze zoomed to the large print of “A Bar at the Folies-Bergère” hanging on my living room wall.

My stomach sank. So he’d seen inside my apartment. Close, too. Closer than you’d see with the naked eye. It was the same as I’d done to him, but it still felt unnerving. What else had he seen? Had I always been careful to draw the blinds?

I stared at the phone, thinking of how to reply. I had meant to apologize, but now, all I felt was anger.

You could use some art yourself.

His reply came quickly. My heart sped to know he had been waiting for me.

My walls too bare for your liking?

My mind spun, no witty repartee coming readily. I didn’t do well in situations like this, where quick responses were required. I did best when I could think, write, rewrite. But the three little dots would give me away. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, considering, until I lost my nerve and set it back down.

The phone buzzed with his call again and I cursed, pressing the green accept button just to get it over with.

“Oh, good,” a deep masculine voice said, with faint surprise. “I’m glad you answered.”

I said nothing, moving the phone further from my face and putting it on speaker. I didn’t want him to hear me breathing.

“I don’t really like texting,” he went on. “I prefer a good old fashioned phone call.”

Yeah, grandpa pjs, I know.

“How old are you?” I asked, and then blinked, surprised I’d asked the question.

He laughed lightly, amused. “I’m 32. And how old are you, little spy?”

“24. And I’m not the only spy.”

“It seemed only fair. You were getting so much entertainment out of me.”

My stomach dropped, but the sound that came out of my mouth was a scoff.

“No?” he laughed again in that bemused way. “You don’t like watching me work out?”

“I watch a lot of people,” I said defensively, then cringed.

“See, you’re a little spy.”

“They like me watching.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I just do,” I said, thinking of the hippie couple, the woman’s breasts pressed flat against the clear glass.

“What do you watch them doing?”

“Normal stuff,” I said, shrugging. “Cooking, watching TV, arguing.”

“And having Sex?”

I swallowed hard, Mr. Suit’s words so close to my own line of thinking.

“Sometimes.”

“Does that make you wet?”

My stomach clenched, and I felt slightly faint. I wasn’t enjoying this. It felt like I was close to being caught in a terrible trap. Suddenly I wondered if maybe he was recording the conversation, and my heart thumped painfully in my chest. I hadn’t gone to school for 6 years just to fuck it up for something this stupid.

“Watching something like that would get me hard,” he offered, his voice steady, as if commenting on a potential weather front.

“But, there’s nothing that exciting going on in your building.”

“No?” I croaked breathlessly, almost thankful that he was admitting on the record that he too was a voyeur.

“No,” he echoed. “But it’s mostly you I’m interested in, and as far as I know, you haven’t brought anyone home since you moved in.”

Suddenly overwhelmed, I hung up, silencing the phone. I walked quickly over to the bedroom, tossing it onto the bed, and shutting the door, as if punishing it.

***

The next day, the papers were gone from his window. I took the first deep breath I’d taken since they’d been posted. It was over then. He’d called, he’d wagged his finger at me for being naughty, and that was that. I was determined not to do it again.

But he called as I was cooking dinner, and my heart sped as I stirred the marinara, wavering and deciding yet again not to answer it.

But when I saw he’d left a voicemail, I leapt to listen.

I’m going to work out now. Maybe you already knew that. I want you to call me back, and I’ll answer and put it on speaker. Wouldn’t it be nice to hear me while you watch?

Still I vacillated. I didn’t want to listen to him work out, did I? That was an extra layer of weird.

A few minutes later, a text.

I promise not to talk to you at all.

Then he called again, and I answered, muting myself. I didn’t want him to hear me while he worked out.

True to his word, he didn’t talk. I could hear rustling as the phone was set down somewhere, and then the clanging of metal. I turned down the burner and went to the window, turning off the living room lights. I moved the tripod only barely, not taking it out into the middle of the room, just to the far edge of the curtain.

There he was, working out. As he moved, I could hear his sharp exhales, little grunts of exertion. I swallowed hard. It was weirdly sexy. He made more noise than I thought he would, and I wondered if he was doing it for my benefit or if he was always so vocal when he worked out. After a few minutes I left the telescope, taking my phone with me back to the kitchen. I put my earbuds in and continued cooking to the sound of the strangest audiobook I’d ever listened to. By the time his phone alarm chirped to signal his hour was up, I’d eaten and cleaned the dishes, and there was a distinct pool of slickness in the crotch of my panties.

I waited for him to hang up as I knew a Shower must be next, but he didn’t. I felt a flash of impatience. I wanted to get off the phone and masturbate.

Instead, interference crackled on the line as he picked up the phone and moved. I went back to the telescope, but couldn’t see him.

“You still there, spy girl?” he asked, a bit breathlessly.

I hesitated a moment. He had promised no talking. I didn’t want to talk.

“Yeah,” I said finally.

“Good. Don’t hang up. Just listen.”

“Where are you?”

“Just listen,” he said again, and I was quiet.

At first I couldn’t hear much of anything, and I turned up the volume. Maybe he wanted me to wait while he was showering. But then there was a shift in audio as he connected to earbuds, I think, and suddenly I could hear him breathing. The breaths were long, but a bit shaky, and a strange chill went through me. Under the breaths there was a rustling sound, not like fabric, like something else.

Then he let out a soft moan, and lust jolted through me, clenching deep in my belly. My jaw dropped open as I stood there, looking at his empty apartment, listening to him.

The rhythmic sound increased, and I pictured his body, so familiar to me now. He’d be naked, sweaty, standing outside the Shower maybe, or in his bedroom.

“Don’t hang up,” he murmured roughly, and the sound of his voice made my Pussy tighten. I straightened, backing against my living room wall, unable to look through the telescope.

Another moan, more frustrated now, and the sound of his hand moving on his cock. His breathing was quick, erratic. I felt myself trembling all over, felt my hands cup my own breasts as if to reassure myself.

Was I really going to stand there fully clothed and listen to a stranger jack off?

Yes, I thought, nodding. Yes, I was.

As if he’d heard my decision he grunted, sucking in a breath. I heard his hand moving fast now, each of his exhales a soft pant of desperation. He wanted to come so badly. I wanted him to come too, I wanted this to be over.