I had just returned home. It was 11:30 p.m. This was new for me—I had worked the midnight shift for a long time, but now I was on evenings. I entered my apartment, dark, empty, lonely.
I’d only been here seven months. My girlfriend had left a couple of months ago. The gratitude; I’d moved down here to be with her, and after only five months, she abandoned me. That’s life.
So, there I was—a boring Monday evening, no plans, no friends to speak of, and not sleepy at all. I didn’t bother turning on the light, working nights had me attuned to moving comfortably in the dark. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, then sat down in my dining room—if you could call it that.
My apartment was small. Four rooms total: a narrow kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a living room with a half wall near the window that carved out a “dining area,” barely enough space for a small table.
I sat facing the window, watching the world drift by outside—a guy walking his dog, cars passing slowly, the quiet calm of life after dark. Then a light caught my eye. Across the street, a lamp flicked on, and a shadowy figure moved behind the gossamer curtains.
It was the first time I’d ever noticed anyone in the apartments across the way. In my defense, my waking hours were everyone else’s sleeping ones.
The curtain opened, and a half-dressed brunette stood in the window. I watched as she moved around the room, unconcerned with the possibility of being seen. It felt like a glimpse into a life I wasn’t meant to witness, semi-erotic in the way she moved.
I felt guilty watching. Dirty—like I was betraying an unspoken trust.
I stood, turned on the living room light, and sat on the couch, getting up every few minutes to perform some arbitrary task, just to make myself visible. If she saw me, she’d know I could see her too.
After about ten minutes, the light went off. Another came on in the hallway, but she was no longer visible. Satisfied I’d sent my message, I turned off the light and went to bed.
The next couple of nights passed quietly. I came home, watched the world go by, or put on some TV, but didn’t see my neighbor.
On Thursday night, I opened my door and immediately noticed the light across the street. I sat at the table, not wishing for anything, not wanting to watch—yet drawn by the taboo of it anyway.
Moments later, she appeared. The curtains were already open. She wore only a towel as she moved about the room, picking up items I couldn’t make out. Crossing the room. Returning. Crossing again.
Then a second shadow appeared in the hallway.
As it approached, the lithe form of a blonde woman emerged—completely naked. She stepped into the room and pulled my neighbor into an embrace. As they kissed, the towel fell to the floor. Both women stood naked in front of the window, making out, not close enough to be seen from the street, but well within my view.
I felt excitement and shame at the same time. I wanted to watch. I shouldn’t be watching. They moved across the room and lay down. I couldn’t see the bed itself—the top aligned perfectly with the bottom of the window—but I could see everything happening on it.
The items from earlier turned out to be toys.
My neighbor lay on the bottom as her blonde companion worked between her legs, ass in the air, fully on display. Suddenly, I wished I were closer.
I watched.
Heart racing; mind spinning. What am I doing? This is wrong. Get up. Leave. Stop watching. But I didn’t. I stayed seated, transfixed by what was unfolding in 2C.
After some sheet pulling and back arching, my neighbor climbed off the bed, kissed the blonde again, then repositioned her sideways—head toward the window. Not the ideal angle, but who was I to complain about a free show?
My neighbor started to climb back onto the bed—then she looked at me.
Looked at me.
Directly at me. Can she see me? Does she know I’m watching? Oh, shit. What do I do?
Then she lowered her head and returned the favor her partner had just given her. Not knowing what else to do, I stood and went to take a shower. A cold one. When I returned, the lights were out. I went to bed, but sleep came fitfully.
The next morning, I woke still thinking about the night before. My conscience won out, and I decided to confess. Around 10:00 a.m., I saw a blonde leave the building—she looked like the woman from the night before. I gathered my courage and crossed the street, dreading what might come. Expecting the worst, my body practically braced itself for the groin shot I assumed I deserved.
I knocked. The brunette answered almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting. She was even more beautiful up close.
“Hi, uh… I live across the way,” I stammered, gesturing behind me. “I just… I, uh… I can see you. At night. Your window lines up with mine.”
I waited.
“I know,” she said.
I flinched, though she made no move to strike me. “You know?” I asked cautiously.
“Yes. Did you enjoy the show?”
“I may have left early,” I said. “I felt…”
“Bad? Guilty?” she offered. I nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ve seen you. You used to work late nights. I like you watching. It turns me on.” Her hand slid over my crotch.
“I was expecting you to be furious,” I said. “Not… this.”
“Please,” she murmured. “Watch. Maybe someday soon you can come join me.”
“That would be…” I exhaled. “Wow.”
“So you’ll be watching tonight?” Her eyes demanded an answer.
“Yes.”
“Good. See you tonight.” She guided me toward the door.
“Uh—by the way. I’m Doug.”
She smiled. “You can call me Tootsie. For now. As in 2C.”
She kissed me, squeezed my now-obvious arousal, and closed the door.
I walked away in a daze, with no idea what the hell had just happened.