Don't Close the Curtains

The first time I caught him watching me, he looked away so quickly he nearly walked into a lamp.

I laughed.

I probably shouldn’t have.

That was what made him realise I’d seen him.

I was thirty-five and had lived in the townhouse for almost four years. He moved into the place behind mine in March.

I noticed him because his upstairs bedroom window faced the rear of my house.

Not directly. Slightly across.

Enough that if both curtains were open, we could see into each other’s rooms.

His name, I later learned, was Michael.

At first he was just New Bloke.

New Bloke owned too many grey T-shirts.

New Bloke drank coffee in front of his bedroom window every morning.

New Bloke had an elderly golden retriever who frequently escaped into my yard and refused to return home until bribed.

The dog introduced us before Michael did.

“Sorry,” he said the third time I returned her.

“She’s decided I don’t feed her.”

“Do you?”

“Occasionally.”

The dog sat beside me.

Michael sighed.

“Traitor.”

That was the extent of our relationship.

Then winter arrived.

It got dark earlier.

Lights went on before curtains were closed.

One Thursday evening I was standing near my wardrobe deciding what to wear to dinner when I glanced across.

Michael was in his room.

He was looking directly at me.

Not for long.

The second I turned, he looked away.

His hip hit the lamp.

The lampshade tilted sideways.

I laughed.

His head snapped back.

There was no pretending now.

He looked mortified.

I raised one hand.

He raised his.

I closed the curtains.

Not angrily.

I needed to finish getting ready.

But during dinner, I kept thinking about it.

Not the fact that he’d looked.

The fact that he’d been embarrassed about looking.

That distinction mattered.

There are men who stare as though the world owes them access.

Michael did not have that energy.

Michael had the energy of a man who had accidentally opened the wrong bathroom door and wanted the earth to swallow him.

The following evening, I went upstairs.

My hand reached for the curtains.

Stopped.

I don’t know exactly what thought went through my head.

Curiosity, mostly.

Possibly vanity.

Perhaps boredom.

I left them open.

For ten minutes, nothing happened.

I felt ridiculous.

Then his bedroom light came on.

Michael entered.

He walked towards his wardrobe.

Stopped.

Looked across.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed reading.

He looked away.

I kept reading.

A minute later I glanced up.

He was looking again.

This time he didn’t panic.

I smiled.

Michael gave a tiny shrug.

I went back to my book.

That should have been it.

Instead it became something.

Not nightly.

That would have felt forced.

But occasionally.

If our lights happened to be on.

If the curtains happened to remain open.

We noticed each other.

Sometimes Michael would wave.

Sometimes I’d wave back.

Once he held up the golden retriever like some enormous furry hostage.

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

Then the tone changed.

Gradually.

One evening I came home from a work event in a dress I rarely wore.

I stood at the mirror removing earrings.

When I looked across, Michael was there.

He wasn’t pretending not to watch.

Neither was I pretending not to know.

We held eye contact.

For several seconds.

Then I reached for the curtain.

Michael immediately looked down.

I paused.

That interested me.

He’d given me the exit.

Without hesitation.

I left the curtain open.

His eyes returned slowly.

The feeling was unexpectedly powerful.

Not because he could see me.

Because I had chosen to let him.

The difference was enormous.

I sat at the dresser and brushed my hair.

Nothing more.

Michael watched for a little while.

Then he closed his own curtains first.

I smiled.

The following morning his dog escaped.

Again.

I found her sitting outside my back door.

“You really need a better fence,” I told him when he came around.

“I’m starting to think she has keys.”

He clipped on the lead.

Neither of us mentioned the window.

For some reason, that made the whole thing more charged.

“Thanks, Sophie.”

I blinked.

“You know my name?”

“Parcel.”

I laughed.

“Right.”

He looked slightly nervous.

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

He turned.

“Michael?”

He stopped.

“Yeah?”

“Your lamp okay?”

His face went red immediately.

I grinned.

“Oh God.”

“Just checking.”

“I was hoping we’d never discuss that.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to retain some dignity.”

“Bit late.”

He laughed.

That evening his curtains remained closed.

I was disappointed.

Then annoyed at myself for being disappointed.

The next night they opened.

Michael stood there holding a sheet of paper.

SORRY ABOUT THE LAMP.

I laughed.

Found a marker.

I wrote:

IT HAD IT COMING.

That began the notes.

DOG ESCAPED AGAIN.

I KNOW.

BAD OWNER.

SHE LOVES ME.

SHE LOVES EVERYONE.

RUDE.

It was childish.

And fun.

Then one evening Michael held up:

DINNER?

I stared.

He immediately flipped it around.

SORRY. TOO WEIRD?

I laughed.

Then wrote:

FRIDAY.

He looked relieved.

Dinner was surprisingly normal.

Maybe that was the strangest part.

Michael was forty.

Divorced.

Worked as an architect.

Talked too much when nervous.

Liked old films and disliked seafood for reasons he couldn’t adequately explain.

We spoke for three hours.

Not once about the windows.

Eventually we walked home.

At my gate Michael stopped.

“This is going to sound strange.”

“That would be on brand.”

He laughed.

“I liked the windows.”

“So did I.”

“Okay.”

“But.”

His expression changed.

“There are rules.”

“Right.”

“If I close the curtains, they’re closed.”

“Obviously.”

“If you close yours, same.”

“Yes.”

“And no cameras.”

“Jesus, yes.”

“No pretending either.”

“What does that mean?”

“If we’re looking, we’re looking.”

Michael considered that.

“I like that.”

“So do I.”

I opened the gate.

“Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t close the curtains tonight.”

I smiled.

“Bossy.”

“Sorry.”

I let him suffer for a second.

Then:

“Goodnight, Michael.”

I went inside.

Upstairs, I turned on the lamp.

Across the yard, his light appeared.

Michael was already standing near his window.

I didn't wave.

Neither did he.

This time the game had rules.

And permission.

I took off my earrings.

Slowly.

Michael watched.

I unzipped the dress and let it slide down my body.

His expression changed.

That tiny distance between houses suddenly felt electric.

I was wearing black underwear.

Nothing elaborate.

It didn't need to be.

I stepped closer to the glass.

Michael remained still.

Waiting.

I pointed at his shirt.

He understood.

He pulled it off.

I smiled.

Then pointed lower.

He laughed once, nervous.

I raised an eyebrow.

Michael unfastened his trousers.

The sight of him obeying me was far more exciting than I'd expected.

He stepped out of them and stood in his underwear.

Hard.

Obviously.

I touched my own stomach.

Then slid my fingers beneath the waistband of my knickers.

Michael watched.

I watched him watching.

That was the thing.

I had thought I enjoyed catching him looking.

What I enjoyed was knowing exactly what my body was doing to him.

Michael pushed his underwear down.

His cock sprang free.

I stopped moving for a second.

He looked embarrassed.

I shook my head.

No.

Don't hide.

I pushed my own underwear down.

Michael stared.

Good.

I sat on the edge of the bed, legs slightly apart, and touched myself.

His hand closed around his cock.

The first stroke was almost cautious.

Then he saw me watching.

He did it again.

I was wet already.

I slipped two fingers inside myself and let my head fall back.

When I looked across again, Michael was gripping the window frame with one hand and stroking himself with the other.

I could see his mouth moving.

No sound reached me.

It somehow made it dirtier.

Private, but completely visible.

I rubbed my clit harder.

Michael matched my pace.

For several minutes we masturbated for each other in full view, not pretending, not stealing a look, not accidentally caught.

Chosen.

That word kept returning.

Chosen.

I came first.

My legs tightened.

I leaned back on one hand and kept touching myself until the orgasm rolled through me hard enough to make my thighs shake.

Across the yard Michael stared.

Then his hand moved faster.

I watched him come.

He bent forward slightly, forehead almost touching the glass.

When he straightened, we both started laughing.

Not because it was funny.

Because there was suddenly nowhere for the tension to go.

I grabbed the marker.

COME OVER.

Michael read it.

His eyebrows lifted.

NOW.

He disappeared.

Less than a minute later somebody knocked on my front door.

I opened it wearing a dressing gown and nothing underneath.

Michael stood there in jeans, no shirt under his jacket.

“That was quick.”

“I was motivated.”

I laughed and pulled him inside.

He kissed me before the door had properly shut.

This Michael was different from Lamp Michael.

Still careful.

But no longer timid.

His hands went to my waist.

I opened the robe.

Michael stopped kissing me long enough to look.

“Still okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I took his hand and put it between my legs.

His breath changed when he felt how wet I was.

“Because of that?”

He nodded towards upstairs.

“Yes.”

Michael kissed me again while his fingers worked between my thighs.

I gripped his shoulders.

“Bedroom.”

Upstairs, the curtains were still open.

His house was visible across the yard.

Empty.

I pushed his jacket and jeans off.

Michael pulled me onto the bed.

His mouth moved over my breasts, stomach, lower.

When his tongue touched me, I swore.

He smiled against my thigh.

“Quiet neighbour.”

“Shut up.”

He went back to it.

Michael was patient.

Annoyingly so.

He teased until I had both hands in his hair and was grinding against his mouth.

When I came, I bit the inside of my wrist to stop myself shouting.

He climbed up beside me.

I kissed him.

Then pushed him onto his back.

“My turn.”

Michael started to say something.

I took his cock into my mouth.

He stopped.

I liked the change in him.

The loss of nervous commentary.

The way his hand tightened in the sheets when I took him deeper.

I looked up.

He was watching me.

Of course he was.

I pulled off him.

“Don't stop.”

“Looking?”

“No.”

Michael stared while I sucked him.

When he was close I stopped, climbed over him and reached for the drawer.

“Condom?”

He blinked.

“Do you have one?”

“I’m thirty-five, not twelve.”

“Right.”

I put it on him.

Then straddled him.

Michael’s hands settled on my thighs.

I lowered myself onto his cock slowly.

The stretch made me close my eyes.

When I opened them, Michael was still watching.

“Good?” he asked.

I nodded.

Then started to ride him.

The curtains remained open.

That made everything sharper.

Not because anybody else was watching.

Nobody was.

Because the place where our game had begun was right there beside us.

Michael thrust up.

I leaned forward.

“Harder.”

He did.

I rode him faster, wet sounds filling the room, his hands gripping my hips.

Michael rolled us over and fucked me with more confidence than I'd expected, one hand beside my head, the other under my thigh.

I wrapped my leg around him.

“Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

He didn't.

I came again with him deep inside me.

Michael followed soon after, body tensing over mine.

Afterwards he lay beside me breathing hard.

I looked towards his house.

“You know your curtains are still open.”

Michael groaned.

“Of course they are.”

“Good.”

He turned his head.

“Why good?”

I smiled.

“Tomorrow night you can watch from your side again.”

He laughed.

“After this?”

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“The windows were never the consolation prize.”

He understood.

The next evening, precisely at ten, both bedroom lights came on.

No notes.

No excuses.

No accidental glances.

Just two neighbours who knew exactly what they were doing.