Voyeur

I should thank the architects of your apartment building. They gave me a gift without ever knowing it: tall glass windows, softly aglow with the dim lights in your bedroom. My own private theater, where I can watch you from across the street with my telescope.

The air outside the window is crisp; night has fallen hours ago, yet the warmth of your place is so palpable to me. You’re lying naked on your bed, your soft skin contrasting starkly against the silk sheets. You writhe, panting, with your perfect auburn curls spread on the pillow like a fan. One of your hands is between your legs, and the other caresses the nape of your neck. The hair there is clipped short in an undercut, normally hidden by your mane.

As you’re nearing the climax, I can see your pelvis rise, the angular bones jutting out and lit dramatically. Simultaneously, you run the other hand through your cascading hair. It claws into your curls, tugging hard, probably even a little painful. Your back arches and your mouth gapes open into a silent scream before you slump back onto the sheets, shuddering.

All the tension seems to drain from your body; your head rolls on the pillow, your face to the window. I can only make out a glimpse of your sultry eyes between your relaxed, half-closed lids.

I’m half convinced you fell asleep like this when you suddenly stir. You swing your slender legs over the edge of the bed, and your toes curl into the shaggy bedside rug as they touch it. You saunter gracefully into the bathroom. With the lights on, I can clearly make out your silhouette in front of the bathroom mirror, your back turned to me.

You gather your hair in one hand, twist it around your wrist, and pull it taut. The other hand touches your nape searchingly. You run your fingers over the velvety fuzz, where it tapers into a soft V, just short of your occipital bone. Then you let the curls cascade back down, with their full length reaching the middle of your back and hiding your long neck like a curtain.

You watch yourself in the mirror for a few minutes, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. Although I can’t see your face, I assume you’re contemplating and trying to decide on something. Eventually, you bend down to search through a cabinet, giving me a prime view of your backside.

As you stand up, your hand has closed around a small, black object. Hair clippers – curious. I wonder what’s going on in your head. Do you think it’s time to trim your undercut? You fumble with the device, popping the guard off. Then you pause briefly, running your thumb along the ridged handle of the clippers. It’s a small, nervous gesture, the same one you do when you’re thinking hard – like when you absent-mindedly trace the rim of your wine glass. My mouth goes a little dry, and I suddenly feel an odd mix of anticipation and dread of what you are about to do.

With a tiny flick of your thumb, you eventually switch on the clippers. Although we are separated by several panes of glass and the street, I can almost hear their hum. Your grip on them must be steely, because your knuckles are almost turning white. Are you trying to suppress your shaking?

Before I can understand what you are doing, you put the clippers to your forehead, right where your hairline must be. I blink, unable to process what I’m seeing. The clippers, guided by your steady hand, bite into your auburn waves. They glide over the top of your head, towards me, past your crown. The glinting blades push a section of hair ahead of them until gravity makes it slide down your bare back. The thick, coiling strand bounces lightly off the ground behind your heels and finally remains lifeless on the bathroom tiles.

I gasp as I realize that a harsh, bald swath now separates the luscious curls on either side of your head. I want to look away, but I can’t. My eyes are glued to the destruction. You must be pretty shocked yourself, since you almost drop the clippers, causing them to teeter close to the edge of the sink. You smooth down the long locks on either side of the now stubbly path down the center of your head.

I watch in awe as the muscles in your back work underneath the skin when you pick up the clippers again. You place them on your forehead once more. This time you barely hesitate as you widen the shaved path and send more severed hair to the floor. Again and again, and soon you have completely shorn off the hair on top of your head.

Almost frantically, you run the clippers through the remaining curls to the left and right of your head until you finally put the machine down for good. You are trembling, and your muscles are tense as you raise your arms. It seems to take a lot of effort to get your hands to touch your head. But as soon as your fingers touch the coarse stubble on your scalp, your shoulders slump and relax instantly. Your hands eagerly explore the unfamiliar texture of your, admittedly, shapely head. Short hair clippings stick to your sweaty skin, covering your shoulders and upper back, and now probably your sweaty palms as well.

You step out of the huge pile of auburn curls at your feet, careful not to disturb it. You disappear into the shower, and the air in your bathroom becomes foggy. The whole time I can barely breathe, let alone avert my eyes. I’m mesmerized by your unusual transformation as you emerge from the shower. You don’t bother to put a towel on, but step in front of the large window overlooking the street below, now facing me directly.

I study the blank expression on your face and the lack of hair on your head. I can see small droplets of water dripping from the dark stubble on your otherwise pale scalp. They bead down your face, neck, shoulders, and arms.

You linger and stare into the darkness beyond the street where I’m hiding. You run your hand tentatively from front to back over your shaved head. Your gaze finds mine, and our eyes lock. The corners of your mouth twitch. It’s only a moment, but it’s enough.

Then you flip a switch next to the window. The last glimpse I catch of your face is a wicked, knowing smile before you disappear behind the lowering blinds. I’m left staring at my own reflection in the dark glass, wondering if I’ve been the one being watched all along.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy this story.

– rightdownthemiddle

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