Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

I see you watching me. I’ve known for quite some time that you’ve been doing it.

At first, I think I am imagining it. That you are simply a flash of colour or a refraction of light against the glass.

But then our eyes meet.

You hold my gaze for mere seconds before you leave your position at the window and disappear into the darkness of your home beyond, into a room I cannot see or even picture. Though I have tried to; I imagine that your house is the same as my own, with sprawling square footage and more space than either you or I conceivably know what to do with.

I can’t see the hue of your eyes, though in my mind I always picture them as deep and bottomless; dark like an unfathomable space I’d get so very lost in if I were to stay too long in their undivided thrall.

Each time I think you are watching me I am always disappointed if I look up and find you are not here. The absence of you starts to get under my skin and it prickles all day beneath the sleeves of my couture.

I begin to wonder if I have made you up; created you from the fragments of my own isolation. If I am so desperately lonely that I have reduced myself to picturing an ingenue, a paradigm of femininity to fill the void where my heart had once been. But then I remember that I’d never used that worthless organ in my life, except to express the feelings I have for my daughters who have the uncanny ability to make it tick and chime.

And then along came you.

Somehow the thought of you makes my wizened heart throb and ache. It pulses and pumps and pushes the blood through my veins much faster and thicker than it ever has before.

My mind cannot fathom why, and I still question the existence of you; a young woman who looks in my eyes and dares me to look right back.

Then you come to me again.

It’s a little after midnight, the air cool and damp; my night dress clinging to my skin as a hot flush comes over me.

The curtains are ajar, a small sliver of breeze drifting through the thick fabric. They undulate in the moonlight and cast long shadows across the hardwood floor.

I move close to them, sleep pressing at my eyelids which has distracted me from searching you out which is my want whenever your window comes into view.

My fingers barely curl around the edges of the drapes when my gaze flickers over to your side of the street. I can’t see your face, it is set back too far into the blackness, but the cotton of your blouse, almost translucent in the half light, is unmistakable.

My grip tightens imperceptibly, and my breath holds form at the back of my throat like a heavy weight on my tongue. Have you seen me? Is my presence still unknown to you despite you waiting so patiently?

Because you have been, haven’t you. It isn’t a question. No. It is a truth as plain to see as the nose on my face. You have turned your furniture around to face my home…to face my bedroom and have waited to see me.

The shadows hide you well enough and I retreat from the curtains into my own darkness to see if I can coax you into the light.

My pulse thunders in my neck, and I am acutely aware of the clock ticking beside my bed, striking down every protracted moment until you might face me.

You never come for me.

Sleep does not find me.

You are not here the following night, nor the six that follow though my skin tells me you are. It still itches and twitches with the sense that I am not alone. I try to take solace in that cold comfort.

I take to opening my curtains a little wider after this.

The rain is relentless in its onslaught almost a month later. My car is late to collect me for work and I have to return to the town house for something I left behind. My shoe catches on a gap in the pavement and I bend down to ease my calf upwards to avoid twisting an ankle.

And that’s when I see you. Or hear you first, I should say.

A door clicks shut, and my eyes flash to the sound of it as I slowly rise to my feet again alongside the car; my driver holding an umbrella over my head to take the worst of the inclement weather.

Your eyes widen in surprise when they meet my gaze, recognition flashing like terror as you freeze to the spot, water beginning to drip from the ends of your long brown hair.

Lips as red as freshly drawn blood part as if you might greet me, and I feel my own panic at what I might offer in reply and in the company of Roy no less. But nothing comes out. You do not speak, just close your mouth tightly, the corners curling into a thin…smile? I’m not certain.

And then you are gone, taking the steps of your entranceway in two leaps and then hurrying up the street towards Fifth Avenue.

Where are you going in the rain? I ponder that thought all the way to work and dangerously entertain the idea of asking Roy to follow you so I can pull over and heroically offer you a ride.

Oh, the foolish thoughts I allow to take up rent in the empty spaces of my mind.

Is this the catalyst for everything? Seeing me in the flesh so close and in full view that you cannot hide, pushing us to be more reckless?

This same day I go to bed earlier than usual, nursing a scotch that I bring upstairs with me as I strip out of my dress. I hang it away of course before stepping back into my room.

My finger is on the lamp switch, but the hairs on the nape of my neck alert me to something. To you.

Your light is on.

I hold my breath until it burns, finally letting it shatter out of me in small splinters as I watch you watching me.

You are blatant, obvious, unhidden from my sight. You want me to see you, though I am certain I am not on show for your hungry gaze to feast on, the darkness of the room takes care of that and there is no light to dance across my pale skin or my navy-blue lingerie.

Goosebumps erupt nevertheless, and I feel a rush of heat surge through me, ending in an uncomfortable dampness at the apex of my legs.

You’ve made me wet. So very wet.

You make me many things this night as I stare across at you and yearn to pull the space that feels so vast between us, closer. Anything to reduce just a little of the physical distance that is allowing this interlude between day and night. Work and sleep. Real and make-believe.

I’ve wanted your eyes on me for weeks now and have dreamed of knowing what yours look like in return. But now I want more. Now I yearn for your touch, for your hands on my body and the firm press of your fingers in places that have never set my soul on fire.

Something whispers to me that yours will.

I walk to the window in a trance and press a palm against the glass and look right back at you.

You don’t frighten like you did in the street. You lean forward in your chair and hold my gaze as if you are trying to reach me through that connection alone. To communicate your secrets and desires to me, the woman you watch.

The light goes out and a black shape takes your spot and though my eyes can’t be sure, I imagine that you are still there, residing inside the inky shadows to see what I might do.

The street is empty, blinds and curtains closed tightly, the day fading away into the next as I hold my fingers behind my back and unclasp my bra.

I slide my arms free from the straps and hold the cups against my breasts as I dare you to watch me.

My energy thrums under my skin and my limbs feel light at the prospect of your silent appraisal. I want you to need more than I am giving you.

Unable to resist, I smirk before turning my back and dropping my bra, dangling it off a crooked finger as I saunter back into the obsidian depths of my bedroom feeling victorious and in control.

You make me feel visible. Seen. And a memory flares inside my mind as I ease my limbs beneath the crisp Egyptian cotton bedspread and rest my weary head on the pillow.

I remember flowers, singular beautiful stems that on occasion have appeared beside the front door that had been disparaged by my husbands and sometimes picked at by my daughters’ inquisitive fingers before I could admire them fully.

Nigel had romanticised them of course as had I, allowing myself to idle in the idea of someone giving me a token of their admiration without ever asking for anything in return.

I suppose it is a little like the two of us, though we are mutually benefitting from this act of seeing.

I like you watching. 

What does that say about me? Am I an exhibitionist? Have I uncovered a kink for voyeurism so late in life?

I ponder this for weeks on end researching the subject in great enough detail until I’m relieved to understand that I don’t wish to be on display for just anyone. I do not fantasise about having sex on my bed whilst I am observed in my lasciviousness; my twisted carnal delights part of someone else’s entertainment. I do not wish for unseen eyes to run the length of my body or strip me bare.

No.

I realise it is just you that I picture watching me. It’s only your eyes that I want to follow my every movement, my comings and goings…my bedtime routine.

Only you.

And I do not even know your name.

Autumn turns to winter, and the streets are paved in crisp white snow. The city always feels quieter somehow, especially at night under its deep, cold blanket.

I take to retiring early to my room with a brandy in the hope you feel the same need to nest and unwind as I do when the frost creeps in and the wind whistles through the trees and coats the evergreen leaves with its icy touch.

I find that it is now I that waits for you more times than not, and I do not mind. I leave a lamp glowing at my bedside to cast a subtle light for you to watch me by.

Sometimes I pretend that I do not know you are there, just so I can be reduced to the hammering in my ears as my blood runs hot and thick inside me; my heartbeat pounding between my damp thighs, aching to be listened to. Tended to.

And I think about it. Of course, I do. Oh, there have been more nights now than I can count, where I’ve surrendered to the vision of you; writhing beneath my bedsheets, legs spread wide, muscles flexing, as I come apart time after time on my fingers.

Would you like to watch that too? Watch me fall apart knowing it was only for you? That my body sings the tune you have written for it?

I know you would like that.

Other times I do not pretend I am unaware of you. I actively remain until I can see you in the shadows before turning my gaze on you. A gaze that many in the world I work in are terrified to meet. But not you. No. You are unafraid of me, aren’t you?

I wonder if you know who I am. If you recognised me or asked about me.

I confess to doing that about you, though I have managed to find out very little except that you have inherited the house from your grandmother; a lady I had always found rather personable and her English accent a joy to listen to.

Your surname is Sachs as I noted from a letter being delivered one day. I may or may not have drawn the gentleman from the post office into idle conversation, that I simply detest by the way, so that I may learn of your moniker.

‘A’ Sachs to be precise.

‘A’.

It could be so many things and I have chewed over them all; had each one in my mouth before letting you roll over my bottom lip to see what you sounded like. What you tasted like.

Some are much sweeter than others, and I know how hungry you make me.

You’ll often sip wine and I discern it is usually red. I consider buying you a case of my favourite Malbec but fear it could be an overstep. After all, the only time that glass did not divide us, you ran from me. Those were the early days of course when our relationship was hesitant and fragile still.

Relationship.

I catch myself saying that in my head all the time. The truth is that I feel closer to you than any other partner I have had. It sounds ridiculous to say it. It makes me laugh at how ironic it is for a woman dubbed so untouchable and frigid by the press to feel such an unquenchable passion for someone just as unreachable. At least I make the assumption that you are. That you don’t have a someone who completes you, who shakes your world and warms your sheets. A someone you gaze upon like you do with me.

Jealousy is an ugly bed fellow and a crueller mistress. She is hard to banish from my home once I’ve showed her inside.

But how can there be anyone else for you than me? You spend just as much time in your glass prison as I do in mine. Waiting. Wanting. Staring.

Seeing.

I love you watching.

When did it change, this liking into loving?

I do not recall the moment that it did, only that it now is. A new thing. A different thing. An active pursuit that has become my life.

Even as my children return home for Christmas, their tales of university and the friends they have made; their laughter and energy filling my home once again, it does not stop me waiting for you.

I see you watching when I take the girls to the park, leaning against the window frame until I disappear from your sight. You make me warm enough to undo the buttons of my Dolce & Gabbana, single-breasted, black, woollen coat.

I catch you looking the morning I kiss them goodbye again; the new year marking a fresh semester for them and a busy time for my magazine.

I enjoy you watching as the snow melts and the fog rolls in. As that too is replaced with rain and clouds that feel as though they will never leave, and the buds spring into full bloom.

I love you staring the night I return home close to midnight, tired and rattled after a day of reckless incompetence, spring almost a distant memory as summer now nips at its heels.

You are dressed for bed in the softest looking brushed cotton pyjamas I have ever seen and yearn to touch; a book on your lap though I cannot make out the title.

I remain hidden for quite some time, taking each garment from my weary body, and hanging it away in my closet before moving to the window.

The street is desolate as always, and it is only you and I caught in the magical moment between sleep and wakefulness; that pocket of time where it feels like anything can be said or done.

My body floods with arousal as you rise to meet me, your palm flat against the glass as if you want nothing more than to touch me.

I chose my attire just for you, the charcoal silk robe wrapped like a second skin around my pale body; striking in the light of the full moon.

You turn off your light and my eyes widen as you slowly undo the buttons of the checked top you are wearing, each one seeming to take an eternity to open.

With each inch of your supple skin exposed to me I shake, having to grab onto the curtain to stop myself from swaying.

When you are done you let the shirt hang loosely from your shoulders, the swell of your breasts and the long line of your toned abdomen making me salivate. Oh, how I want to lick you from your chin to your sex, dropping to my knees to worship you.

You press against the glass again and I know what you are asking of me.

I know that I’ll answer. I am dressed just for you after all, and as my hands find the sash of my gown and untie the knot at my waist, I can see your fingers curling into a fist and the movement of your shirt as if your breathing is as erratic as my own.

Your struggle is as real as mine, your need just as great isn’t it my darling? And who am I to deny you the things you desire the most?

I open my gown, exposing a tantalising strip of torso that ends with a pair of black lace La Perla’s and thigh high stockings.

Like you I have forgone a bra, and I can feel the undeniable pull of my nipples as if they know they are being appraised; the peaks stiffening and pebbling.

I cross my arm over my body and cup my left breast and your fist slips down the windowpane. It makes me smile, makes me see how affected you are by me.

It drives me to be bolder.

I grab the edges of my robe and run my hands up and down the long lapels, the silk gliding effortlessly over my skin as I hold every ounce of your attention.

And then I’m pulling the garment open, holding it wide as it sags away from my arms and shoulders and reveals my body to you, the girl in the window. To my relationship. To the one I love watching me. To the one I…love.

You sink to your knees before me, pressing as close as you can be, your forehead on the glass; a hand dropping out of sight.

Oh.

Oh…yes.

You’re…touching yourself for me, aren’t you? I can see your arm twitching up and down and from how wet the gusset of my own panties is, I can only imagine how soaked you must be too.

I’m envious of your fingers. I wish I was rubbing through your slick folds and sliding inside your sex, feeling your walls closing in around me as I fuck you into such sweet oblivion.

I scrape my nails across my chest, hissing at the sensation as my other hand anchors me against the window.

I pull on my nipples, twisting them, teasing them, licking my fingertips before using my saliva to soothe the sting as I pant and mewl.

My hips subconsciously move as if I’m driving my own core against you as I watch the frenetic pace you are driving yourself to now; more of your chest coming into view as you do so.

You are a feast to my starving eyes my love and I will never eat again unless it is at your table.

Then you’re coming. Your beautiful face tensing, your eyes, so desperate to close remain locked on mine as you convulse and strain and careen over the edge just for me.

And I hear it. I hear you. For the first time my ears also get to enjoy you as you cry out your pleasure with one word. A word I did not realise you knew.

“Miranda!”

I come.

I come without your touch or my own.

I come because you watch me, and I experience your climax as if it were my own.

I come because you call for me. Because you ask me to; using my name as a prayer from your lips as a promise you intend to keep.

I want you watching me.

The MET gala keeps me busy, and my days are filled with planning and preparation, but my nights I still reserve for you.

Sometimes we while away an hour watching one another, content with the simplicity of doing just that.

Other times we take our pleasure in dimly lit spaces until we cannot breathe beneath the agony of our completion.

Sometimes we read with one another. Your idea; pressing the cover of a novel to your window one evening before retiring to bed.

I send Emily to fetch me a copy the very next day, so I can be ready to begin a new chapter with you.

We sit and peruse the pages and sip our favourite blends of alcohol as the blossoms blow away heralding the hint of summer as my bookshelf begins to swell with the words you wish me to know. The journeys you want to take me on. The ones I write in my journals.

And oh, how you’ve opened my eyes.

My Oscar de La Renta dress fits me like a glove, moving with my body like liquid silk as I step into the town car.

I do not see you watching me and cannot help the pang of disappointment that sticks to my craw as Roy drives the short distance to the gala.

I am used to people watching me. You must know that, as you know who I am now. I wonder if that bothers you at all, for I know it would vex me greatly to think of others looking upon you as I do.

It’s particularly obvious at events such as these, when gazes linger longer than necessary; sycophantic stares that cling to my skin and make me feel dirty, not desired as people may presume to think.

And I feel it more keenly now because of you. You whose approval I yearn for. You who I desire to truly see me. You and only you who I want undressing me.

Nigel sees me home and I consider telling him about you as we drunkenly sway together on the porch.

My dearest friend has noticed the change in me. Apparently, I’m lighter, looser; infinitely happier than he has ever seen me. He asks me if I’m in love and I throw my head back in delight and laugh from the bottom of my soul at how right he is as I fall back against my front door, dragging him with me.

He leans in and kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear that whoever you are he is thankful for you. Thankful for how happy you are making me.

My darling, if only he knew.

If only you knew.

I kick off my heels elated by his words and smile from ear to ear as I make my way upstairs to be with you. To end my day with you as I do every other, though I know it will have to change. That at some point in time, one of us needs to be brave; brave enough to cross the street and walk those final steps hand in hand.

I wonder why it hasn’t happened yet, as this thing between us has bloomed and grown; our relationship that has ripened into the sweetest of fruits yet to be plucked and savoured.

I romanticise of course, picturing us both as star-crossed lovers unable to leave the prison of our individual lives. At my worst, at my weakest, when my inner demons crawl from the cesspits in my mind, I believe it is because you will never bring yourself to have someone as old as I am. That I am merely a means to an end. Something to titillate and occupy your time.

But I know things will alter, as so they must. As do all things eventually as the wheels of time shift and our bodies demand things that can no longer be sustained through a pane of glass.

My dress is heavy and cumbersome, so I do not undress myself in the light for you, instead choosing to shed my evening in the confines of my closet.

Can hearts really beat this fast, for mine is sprinting beneath my bosom at the anticipation of seeing you, of finally having your eyes wash away all the faceless other pairs that have taken their fill of me. I want yours to cleanse me as I come apart on my fingers for you, already feeling the wet press of desire urging me towards the light.

As my hand falls against my window, and I smile and sigh at the sight of you; everything falls away just as quickly.

It’s a slow carousel of alarming realisation that spins me off kilter with each sickening click of its wheel.

Your body is shaking, that’s the first thing I notice as the happiness falls away from my lips.

Tears. Your face red, yet ashen and your eyes holding so much anguish I feel them lance my heart in two at the sight of them. It’s enough to make me stagger in shock.

Your head slowly moves from side to side as your fist hits the glass and I jump as though you are punching my chest, and I do not understand what is happening.

I place a hand over my heart, the other palm against the coolness of the windowpane as I try to convey that everything is alright and as it has been, and will be, and that I am yours. That I’ve been yours from the very beginning. But you cannot hear me. Do not read my gestures as declarations of my undying love for you.

I do not understand!

I am breathless now and panicking, my own tears falling unchecked; makeup staining my cheeks.

I cannot hear you crying, but I feel it. It’s as if my blood resonates with the vibration of your suffering and it swells inside my veins; bulging and gushing inside me as if it might burst straight out.

You blink once…twice, and you close your blinds completely; nothing but darkness behind the wooden slats that keep you from me.

I’m bleeding to death. I must be, for I am weak and exhausted and still standing frozen to the spot hours later, staring at the place where you once stood and willing you to look at me.

Please look at me. Please see me as you did before. Watch me and unfold me and desire me with your beautiful eyes so that I may live again.

It’s what I’ve liked, loved and wanted.

And now it is something more.

I need you watching.