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Shorter Story by propgrl |
He watched her every morning. She always wore her hair down, face half covered. It made him think of the mask in Phantom of the Opera. On principle, he hated musicals but there was this girl. She seemed nice enough so he took her to see it. That night, she gushed about Webber. Spoke through intermission, in the bar and after, in his bed. He was relieved when she finally slept. Her cat had been watching him lately. Tail flicks saying – we don’t want invading eyes. Your subterfuge. Your pressed trousers and linen suits hanging crisp on your body. Close your curtains and get back to your life. She had delicate fingers. The way she held the brush, her coffee cup, a spoon, turned everything to Narnia. The way she floated to gaze out the window then back to the small breakfast table kept him distracted. The morning paper perpetually unread. He kept the subscription only for an excuse to sit there long after his food was gone. For something to look down to if caught staring. She never did. It wasn’t long for him to realize she left much later then him. His five years of first one in the office faded to problems on the tube, power failures and dodgy alarm clocks. Still, he seemed to always beat her out the door. The new IT guy sat a couple desks down from him - one of those golden Australians who missed home but loved the British pound. Peter. Peter something or other. Peter talked to home on one of those webcams. He never noticed it before. That night, after learning everything he needed to know about technology from Peter, he set up a webcam by the window. Honing in on her flat, it was remarkable how detailed everything was: the yellow phone had a thin layer of dust just across the back; the table was chipped on the left side; the carpet was thick pile, brown and lovely. She had left a bottle of red wine on the table. A glass half full, the straw faintly touched with lipstick, waited for it’s owners return. He never watched her at night before. He was shocked when she stumbled into the room. He pressed his body to the window as if to touch her but could only watch as she crumpled. Wiping at her face, her hair moved and she looked up. Her eyes were blue staring at him watching her. In that moment he saw the side of her face webbed with scar tissue, saw her heaving body, saw the mascara streaking her cheeks like kids face paint on a hot day. She looked past him and there was the camera focused on her. As if burned again, she flung back, hand to face, banging into the table and knocking the chair to the floor. The bottle tipped and it’s contents waterfalled to pool by the phone. He stood there like Lot’s wife as the red dripped to the floor. The curtains would stay closed tomorrow. |
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