Page 3 of Gaze
As I wake from another night of dreamless slumber, I watch the shadows dance around my drawn curtains. The air, hot and stale with no chance of reprieve in sight. It's later than I usually wake up, but I have nothing to fill my time; and no need to set an alarm. Another day where I am cursed not to feel the warmth of the sun's rays across my skin. Another day with no respite from the blistering heat crawling all over my skin, as I lay entombed, a shroud of sweat coating my skin.
I sit up and stretch my body as best I can, the cast on my leg preventing any movement below my thigh. The pain has reduced to a dull ache, something I am at least thankful for. Shuffling to the bathroom and washing in the sink, the shower taunting me with its alluring cold raindrops. At least I am better than the people in the block opposite. They are already being baked in sunlight, deadly rays permeating even the darkest recesses. No apartment in this block gets direct sunlight, a design flaw or feature depending on how you look at it, and in this heatwave; it is definitely a feature.
This weather at least gives me something unique to occupy my time - people don’t close their curtains in the blinding heat; opting, hoping, praying even that in leaving them open they might catch a small breeze, desperate for any relief from the unprecedented heat. I struggle out of the bedroom, adjusting my already warm t-shirt against my damn skin. It was always the truth in the summer, people liked to keep their windows open, taking in the relief of darkness and the cooler night air when they could. Not thinking that people can see into their homes, into their lives. Maneuvering my way carefully to the small kitchenette, I make myself a coffee; watching as the dark brown liquid drips into the pot. Before settling myself into the armchair that was now facing the window, I had struggled a few days ago to reposition it away from the TV set and towards the glass. No easy feat with my cast, but well worth the bother.
I reach out to the table next to me, pawing around for the matches and cigarettes that I had left there - a bad habit but one I wasn't in a position to quit right now.
I fill my day with reading, first a novel I have been meaning to finish - the ending unsatisfying after much fanfare and an interesting cat and mouse premise. After that I pick up a magazine Lisa dropped off for me a few days ago. Flicking through the glossy pages I read some of the articles, but they just make me jealous of the people living a life outside my apartment.
As the light starts to fade, I turn my attention to my new favorite hobby. The window.
I cast my eyes over the checkerboard of windows, seeing the same people I have been watching for days. Illuminating their little slices of life like a color TV set. But this is better than any sitcom or drama faked for my entertainment, this is real life, unfiltered and raw. Just the way I like it.
As always, I start with the top left, it's become a ritual - light a cigarette and turn to the first frame. A room with a large studio window fully open for my viewing pleasure. A short, balding man stands near the dormer window, almost in silhouette against his harsh ceiling light. Mr. Songwriter I call him. He spends hours on the window ledge playing his guitar and scribbling notes down. He's shaving again. I can't hear it, but I know the buzz of his electric razor, a portable mirror balanced on a shelf. To the right of him is a battered high fi. It probably cost a fortune new but that must have been a decade ago. There is a small portable radio on the top shelf. I watch him as he bops his head to the beat before he jumps up and runs to his small radio, clearly changing the station before moving his head in a more vigorous motion.
I graze my eyes right onto another low building, to a living room window. A small oscillating fan is perched on the ledge, trying in vain to draw in some cool fresh air. Beyond that on the desk stands a vanity mirror surrounded by bottles, filled with the latest lotions and potions. Miss Torso, drag artist extraordinaire, is perched on a stool behind. The soft pink of the lace bra looks striking against their dark skin as they apply layer upon layer of foundation and blush. I could watch her for hours transforming into what I have come to think of as her true self. Before slipping out into the night to perform at clubs and parties across the city. Always in the most elaborate outfits I have ever seen. I like to imagine her as a not yet famous star waiting to be discovered in some sleepy gay bar.
My eyes are drawn to the bright cars whizzing around the distant street corner, barely visible between the two buildings. The traffic is light at this hour, but a Sanitation Department truck moves through the intersection spraying water out behind it to cool the pavement and keep the dust down. I can only lick my lips as I imagine how that cool spray would feel against my own heat drenched skin.
A knock on the door distracts me from my daily viewing habits. “Come in” I shout. I don’t lock the door anymore. It’s more effort to get up and answer it for the few visitors I get a week.
“You really should lock this,” Steve said. He is a shorter man who has recently taken over the building management and handyman jobs- and as a result he is also one of the only people I regularly see. His thick black hair shows signs of aging with its salt and pepper edges, his beard telling the same story of age and a lifelong lived. Since the heat started, he has ditched his overalls for a pair of old cargo shorts and a loose shirt, the stains documenting his daily workload.
“You tell me every time” I call back, not looking away from the window as Miss Torso applied another layer of mascara.
He walks into my living space and scans his eyes around looking at the mess I am living in judgmentally.
“Lisa is coming by later to help with this.” I gesture to the room; his eyes settled on the dishes in the sink and the strew of old newspapers on the floor where I had knocked them off a table and was now unable to retrieve them. Another problem due to my current condition.
“I don’t know what you did to earn the love of that woman.” Steve chucked as he leans against the small bookshelf full to the brim with photography books.
“I choose not to question these things.” I smile back at him tightly; he knows about Lisa and I - he is a safe person to know – Just as I know about his… preferences for men. It’s what got him discharged from the army. Disgraceful really, his prime years given away in service of wars he didn’t agree too, all to be thrown out after an ill-advised kiss with another soldier.
He laughs at my joke; although it wasn’t really a joke. His chuckle feeling out of place in my dark apartment. As he places the carton of cigarettes on the table he looks up at me.
“Is there anything I can do for you Jen?” He asks, he has always been so helpful, ever since I was cocooned in here, he has been a welcome distraction, every visit offering small talk and titbits of news from the local area.
“Your company is more than enough Steve, thank you” I pull my eyes away from the window and smile back at him “And bringing me these” I gesture at the cigarettes he placed on the table “and the mail - that’s pretty helpful too.”
“How much longer have you got before they take that off?” He gestures to my leg, cased in plaster. I do the mental math; I have been here about 2 weeks which means I have another 4 to go.
“About a month,” I say absentmindedly scratching the top where my skin disappears into the cast. “Then another few weeks on crutches before I am back to myself.”
“Physical therapy?” He raises an eyebrow
“Not until I can get out of the apartment” I sigh “They wanted me to be as immobile as possible, hence the larger-than-life band aid.” I tap on the hard shell of the cast feeling it reverberate down my leg to my toes.
“It won’t be long now Jen” he smiles down at me and pats my shoulder “I’ll pop back up in a few days, stay safe.”
And then he was gone. I am once again alone in my solitude, the way I like it.
chapter
four
Lisa Freeman. Sweet, rich Lisa Freeman. We met at Paris fashion week several years ago, she was wearing the most elegant navy-blue dress, it hugged her figure perfectly. I was of course working for the paper, I saw her through my lens first, a diamond sparking among a sea of pebbles. Our eyes met over the runway of Nadja Auermann and her iconic bionic fembot reflective silver bodysuit.
We hit it off quickly; she ended up in my bed before the week was out. Once back in the city we had met up a few times, always keeping things casual but then we fell into routine and habit. Now I guess you could say she is my steady girlfriend. Not that the world knows that, not that anyone knows that. She would lose her inheritance for sure if her family knew.
