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Sean could almost set his clock by the man across the lane. He'd emerge from his weathered door, the hinges groaning from the effort, and lean against the wall to smoke. Four times a day, every day, no matter the weather. Watching him became almost a hobby, each small mannerism and movement slowly becoming familiar. From what he could tell, the man seemed to live alone, and yet he'd adopted the ritual of one who shared his space with someone who didn't want the smell of cigarettes in the house. Perhaps it was a method he used to smoke less, part of an effort to quit altogether.
Sean notices that his hair is getting longer, a kind of washed-out color with streaks that more than likely are grey and not salon highlights. And every now and then he gets a good look at the man's hands, more blunt than his own, the nails chipped and uneven. He's never gotten a clear view of the man's face, but that doesn't stop Sean from creating elaborate stories about his life, where he goes when he leaves the house, whether he prefers the men or the women who often accompany him back home late at night. He's sure his interest borders on creepy, but he can't imagine who he's hurting. It's not even as if the man knows Sean is there.
The night is muggy and hot. Sean keeps waking up, the sheets clinging to his sweaty skin, and he feels his temper rising to meet the oppressive heat. He gets out of bed, slumps over the table by the window, taking a long drag on a newly-lit cigarette. There's no breeze, but at least the air is slightly less thick over here, the stickiness slightly more bearable. Unexpectedly, the man's door opens and a woman steps out, stylish and model-thin, unlike the bohemian types that usually cross his threshold. But the door doesn't close, and a moment later the man steps through, shirtless and barefoot and looking directly at Sean. There's no mistaking it. Even in the dim light of the streetlamp, Sean can see the pointed gaze. He also sees more of his face now, his mind cataloging the sharp features, what appears to be a deep cleft in his chin.
Even as his anxiety grows at being caught looking, he can't manage to tear his eyes away. Now that he's gotten a slightly better glimpse, he wants more, needs to remember all he can before it gets taken away. But the man shows no signs of leaving; he just stares up at Sean, body relaxed but eyes like laser sites, targeting Sean, not yet ready to relinquish their hold. As more time passes, Sean finds himself shifting toward challenge, deliberately staring, exuding a practiced calm, a nearly cool demeanor. He's not sure but he swears the corners of the man's mouth twitch upward, a quick uptick of a smile, and he realizes all he wants is to taste those lips, feel them part beneath his own, relish in the silent invitation.
A delivery truck clatters down the narrow road, briefly blocking their view. The noise startles Sean, and visibly rattles the man as well. Sean retreats back into the shadows of his room as the man moves back through his door. The spell is broken.
Sean's errands have taken much longer than he'd expected, and he rushes up the street, more annoyed than usual at people and the skill they have of getting in his way. It's late afternoon when he finally returns home, fumbles with the key as he juggles his packages in one arm. It's then that he notices the piece of paper shoved through his letter box, crumpled and torn from careless or rushed hands. He pockets his keys and pulls the sheet free, sees words written in a broad, almost old-fashioned script, the few spare words covering the entire page.
Is watching all you like to do?
His heart begins to pound in his ears as he turns on his heel and looks across the street to see the man watching him from an upstairs window. And in that moment, everything changes, the world shifting beneath the heady weight of new possibilities.