Window Watcher

by Matt Converse

  Window Watcher

  Matt Converse

  Encompass Ink

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Window Watcher

  Copyright © 2019 by Matt Converse

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Artist: Rue Volley

  Edited by EAL Editing Services

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  Contents

  1. The Man in the Window

  2. The Nightmare

  3. The Killer

  4. Thargold

  5. An Unexpected Twist

  6. A Dark Night

  7. Window Watching

  8. The Ring

  9. At the Window

  The Man in the Window

  Sometimes I wonder why I’m not lonely. I spend most of my life alone, staring at a screen, either my computer or TV. Someone looking from the outside might think it’s a lonely life, but it’s not. There is a reason alone and lonely are two different words. I love spending time with myself. Being in your own little world is an asset when you’re a writer. My writing cave is where I shut off the rest of the world to create one of my own. Still, I know I should get out more and as spring arrives and the sun tries to beam through my closed shades, at the very least I should let some of the outside world in. I take a few more sips of coffee and then get up from my desk and PC and walk over to my bedroom window that looks out into an air well. I’m on the second floor in a three-story apartment building, so this window doesn’t get any direct sunlight during the winter. But in the spring, when the sun is higher in the sky, the sun beams down into the air well around two or three in the afternoon.

  I approach the shades a bit like a vampire and decide to ease into it and just turn the slats a bit. Rays of sunshine beam through, creating stripes of sunlight and shade. I like the pattern it makes and step closer to the shades and peek through them into the outside world. I look up to the blue sky above and smile. I step back and pull my shades all the way up and the sun beams onto me and into my bedroom. It lights up the room and I see the hardwood floors could use a little cleaning, but still look pretty good in the sunlight.

  I never go out in the sun without sunglasses on, so I squint from the sunlight hitting my face and shade my eyes with my hand as I step closer to the window and look out. I have to admit, the sun does feel good. I feel the warm rays on my arms and face and it makes me smile. I don’t like the cold and I’m glad that season is officially over. Of course, in San Francisco that usually just means leaving fifty-degree temperatures behind and welcoming temperatures in the sixties and low seventies, but it still feels good. I stand there for a moment just soaking in the rays.

  Although I’m on the second floor, I appear to be on the ground floor from this window because there are storage areas and a garage underneath; there are no actual apartments on the ground floor. Straight across from me the shades are down on both windows. I rarely see who lives there because the shades are almost always down, but I know it’s a married couple with two kids. I hear them sometimes. They usually speak English, but sometimes it’s Spanish, most often when they are on the phone with someone, I’m guessing maybe Grandma and Grandpa. To the left is the stairwell wall, and to the right is my own kitchen window. Because it’s narrow, I can’t see the apartments to the right or left, and glance up at the only other apartment I can see—it is above the one across from me on the top floor. One of the shades is down, but one is up and I see a sideways view of a guy standing near the window. It looks like he’s talking to someone who isn’t in view of the window. I’ve never seen him before; he must be a new tenant. There was a woman living there before. Because of the angle, I can just see him from the waist up, but he is very good looking. He has a white tank top on and his biceps and chest look like he hits the gym quite often. He is probably in his twenties, several years younger than I am, and has black, wavy hair. He looks like James Dean or one of those movie stars from back in the fifties or sixties— he’s extremely sexy.

  I notice now he has his cell phone to his ear in his left hand; I can’t quite see it, but can tell that’s what he’s doing. Just then, he turns toward the window. I back away from my window out of the beam of sunlight and sit on the edge of the bed so my face and eyes are out of the sun. I don’t want him to think I was staring at him, even if I was. I was so busy looking into his world, I almost forgot with a turn and a look he could look into mine. But for now I saw him and he didn’t see me, and I want to keep it that way. I’m not sure why, but there is something titillating about seeing someone who doesn’t know they are being seen. It’s like you are privy to a little peek into their life that no one knows about, and there is some thrill in knowing or seeing something about someone when they don’t know that you know— and that no one else knows.

  Since I’m in the shadowed part of my room now, he doesn’t seem to notice me at all and turns and walks away from the window until I can’t see him. I yawn and stretch my arms. It is early afternoon and is a gorgeous day. I tell myself I should go out for a walk and get some sun and fresh air instead of staring at my computer or TV screen, but instead I stare up at the window. Like my TV and computer screen, the window is square with a plate of glass that I am looking through. It strikes me that even though I am now looking at the real world, I am still watching it in a very similar way.

  The man in the window appears again, no longer on the phone. His back is to me, and he begins stretching. He does this for several more minutes until he turns sideways and peels off his t-shirt. My heart races a little bit; this little show is starting to get interesting. It’s more than I was expecting. His arms and chest are muscled but not bulky; he has a natural looking body. From the side view, I can see his stomach is very flat. This guy has a great body. I silently chuckle and tell myself I should pull my shades up more often. Who knew just pulling up my shades could be so entertaining? After a few more minutes of stretching, he walks away, then walks past the window again gulping some bottled water.

  My body never looked quite that good, even in my twenties. I play tennis but don’t work out, so I don’t have much in the way of defined muscles. I have more of a tall, lean body. But for a guy in my late thirties now, I’m still in excellent shape. Although I imagine this guy is in his mid-twenties, I haven’t really had that good of a look at his face. But that body sure is banging. I realize I’m being a voyeur, but it’s not as if I planned it—it’s just a happy accident.

  I look back up, and stare at the window for several more minutes. There’s no sign of him so I decide to walk away— and then think, well…maybe one more minute. I stare up at the window for several more minutes and then sigh, telling myself, I guess the show is over for today. I laugh at myself for hoping for more— I really do need to get out more. Just as I’m about to walk away from the window-watching, he appears again and the plot quickly thickens— he’s not alone. He’s standing sideways with his shirt off, but now another guy is standing across from him, talking to him. A screen is in his lower window, so I can faintly hear their voices, but not what they’re saying. My heart starts beating faster. What’s going on
here? Is he gay? Is this a hook up I’m witnessing? It’s getting more exciting by the minute. I definitely should come out of my writing cave more often.

  Just then, the other guy brushes back his tan blond hair and leans in to kiss him. Now, I’m definitely feeling excited. But the guy that lives there turns his head away. Is he not gay after all? What the hell is this about? This is a plot twist I didn’t see coming.

  Suddenly, he slaps the blond guy across the face. It’s a loud smack— I almost jump it startles me so much. I didn’t expect this. Are they going to fight? Did a gay friend of his just hit on him? He squeezes the guy’s lips between his thumb and forefinger and barks something at him. I think they are going to fight. Instead, he pushes the blond guy’s head down, then pushes him to his knees. My eyes widen. Oh my god he didn’t want to kiss, but he’s now making him blow him! I guess the slap was just a little foreplay, these two must like it a little rough.

  Even though I’m not into rough play myself, this seems more like roleplay so I’m getting excited myself like I’m watching a free live porn show or something. I see the blond guy’s head going back and forth, but I can’t quite get a good view of exactly what my new neighbor is working with. My eyes dart around for a second, making sure no one is watching me watch. I feel myself getting more and more excited, and feel just a little mischievous for taking in this little show. This is getting good! I’m definitely being a voyeur now. But just then the guy reaches over and pulls the blind down. The show’s over, just like that. Damn! I was just starting to get worked up. I again have to laugh at myself for being so into it.

  Just then my buzzer rings; am I expecting someone? Oh, that’s right, I am. I was so lost in this little window man fantasy that I forgot Icarus was coming over. We’ve been messing around for a few months, but nothing serious. He’s much younger than me, twenty-two, and is a salesperson downtown at Saks Fifth Avenue. He’s very much into fashion and looks like a model. He’s tall and blond with a gorgeous face and a smoking hot body. I joke to my friends that if he weren’t so perfect, he’d be perfect.

  I buzz the gate to let him in, and a moment later I open my front door. As I do, I hear someone yell, coming from outside my window in the direction of the window I’d been watching. I think those guys are maybe playing even rougher now. It almost sounded like he was yelling for real—like he was yelling for help or something.

  “Hey, my sexy man,” he greets me.

  I’m not really his man, but he’s young, so I understand that’s just how he is. He drops his jacket on the sofa.

  “Hey,” I say, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “You’re looking good as always.”

  “Oh, this little ensemble,” he says, beginning to pose. “From top to bottom, shirt by Gucci, Tom Ford shorts, and Prada shoes. And I get them all for a discount.”

  “Oh is that so, is that Gucci shirt pure silk?”

  “As a matter of fact this silk is made in…” he pauses, realizing I’m actually making fun of him. “Oh you! You have no appreciation for high fashion.”

  “I just think you’d look hotter in a pair of sneakers and basketball shorts.”

  He laughs but raises his eyebrows, telling me he appreciates that as a compliment.

  “So have you been writing all morning again?” he asks. And before I can answer, he adds, “All work and no play make Heston a dull boy.” That smile of his is something else.

  “It hasn’t been so boring today,” I say, walking over toward the window. “There was a little window action just before you got here.”

  “Window action? What are you talking about, Heston?”

  “Earlier, there were two guys going at it in the window. Well, before one of them pulled the shade down.”

  “Really?”

  He looks up at the window I’m gazing at, but the shades are down on both windows.

  “You have a very vivid imagination, maybe you should put this into one of your stories,” Icarus says with a grin.

  “Funny,” I tell him. “I make up enough stories when I’m writing, I don’t need to make them up in real life.”

  “Hmmmm,” he says, looking up at the windows. “Sure looks dead to me. Not a sign of anyone. I think you’ve been cooped up in that writing cave of yours for too long. If you went with me out to the clubs more often you wouldn’t have to make up these stories. Did you have an imaginary friend when you were a kid too?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. Just then, the blind goes up and there’s the guy. He has his tank top back on and seems to be by himself now. That was fast, I think to myself.

  “Oh, wow, that guy? He’s hot!”

  “You sure changed your tune in a hurry. But I think so too, he kind of reminds me of James Dean or some movie star from back then. He was with some blond guy, who was just starting to go down on him before he pulled the shade down.”

  “Oh my, you were getting a show, weren’t you? So, he likes blonds,” he says, raising his eyebrows again with a twinkle in his eye. He takes both hands and runs them through his blond hair.

  “You ho!” I tell him. “Well, I hope you like getting slapped.”

  “Slapped?”

  “Yeah, it was weird, the blond guy tried to kiss him and he turned his head and then slapped him. I wasn’t sure what to think, but then he pushed him down to his knees.”

  “Kinky,” Icarus says. “But no, I don’t like getting slapped. At least, not in the face anyway,” he says with a smirk.

  With that, I slap him on the butt. We both laugh.

  “And right as you got here I thought I heard one of them yell—almost like he was yelling for help. I think they were doing a little role play and they like to play pretty rough.”

  The man in the window walks out of view.

  “You know, you wouldn’t have to be peeping at people out of your window if you had a boyfriend.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Oh, here we go again with the boyfriend thing. I wasn’t peeping, I just looked out and there they were. And if I wanted a boyfriend, I’d have one.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “You don’t know what you’re missing. I’d make a great boyfriend.”

  “I know you would, Icarus. You’d be a perfect boyfriend. You’re perfect, Icarus. Absolutely perfect.”

  He squints at me, knowing that’s not what I want in a man.

  “I’m not perfect. And as Tyra says, perfect is boring. And I’m not boring.”

  “No, you’re not,” I agree with a smirk.

  “So why won’t you just be my boyfriend already?”

  He’s cute when he pouts.

  “What is your thing about being my boyfriend? I told you I like things the way they are. You’re hot, we have a great time, and I don’t want or need to put some label on it. I like my own space; I have to have lots of time to myself to write.”

  Now he is the one rolling his eyes.

  “That’s a crock. Does every writer have to live alone? Lots of writers are married, or have a boyfriend or girlfriend, or even have kids.”

  “And that’s them, and I’m me.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible!” Icarus says.

  “I don’t know why you want a boyfriend. You’re twenty-two and hot as hell; you should be playing the field like crazy. You’re too young to settle down or just see one guy. You can have any guy you want.”

  “Apparently not any guy I guess,” he says, looking away.

  “Oh, Icarus, you know I like you— you have me. I’m with you now.”

  “For how long? An hour or two a couple of times a week. I just wish…”

  “Yeah, I know what you wish,” I tell him, looking into his eyes. “I like you a lot. But I am who I am; I’m not going to change.”

  “I just want to be in your life, and for more than a couple of hours a week. Don’t you think you’ll ever change the way you feel about it?”

  “No, I just don’t see it, at least not any time soon.”

  “
I guess I’m not the guy I thought I was,” he says.

  “Yes you are. There’s nothing wrong with you, Icarus— you have San Francisco on a string,” I tell him.

  “Not quite all of San Francisco,” he says, looking forlorn and grabbing his jacket. “I’m in love with you, Heston.”

  “I know you think you are, but you’re young. I like you and you like me, but I’m not going to say those words if I don’t mean them. It’s nothing against you, it’s just way too soon for that, and it’s not something I’m looking for.”

  “It’s not something you’re looking for? How can anyone say that? How can you not want love? Who doesn’t need love? That’s crazy.”

  “Well, I am an author. I’m supposed to be a little nuts.”

  He laughs, but I can tell he’s a little frustrated over me not wanting to be his boyfriend and not saying those three words he wants me to say to him.

  “I have love in my life,” I explain. “I have friends I love, a career I love, a Mom I love… I’m just not into that lovey-dovey stuff.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Ok, you win, be by yourself forever— I’m out of here,” he says, heading toward the door.

  “Oh Icarus, don’t leave, you just got here. There’s no reason to be mad. I’m not telling you anything new.”

  “That’s the problem,” he says. “We are just staying in the same place with no future.”

  “I’m having fun the way it is now. Why can’t we just keep having fun?”

  “With no possibility of it ever going any further? What’s the point?”

  He takes another step toward the door. “Goodbye, Heston.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  He steps to the door and grabs the door knob and turns it. “It means maybe you won’t see me for a very long time,” he says, swinging the door open dramatically and heading out. “Or at least until Friday night!”