She knew this because “Mr. Slippery” - she called him that because his hair was combed with gel and gave him the appearance of a bird injured in the crash of a tanker - he told her himself. Once in the elevator, he went out and told her: “I can look in your window, and I know ... that you are a night owl, like me.” She wondered if he would have said if she was married, or even would meet with someone.
Fucking pervert. He is sitting at his kitchen table, Mr. Slippery's table, at a table covered with oilcloth, pretending to be reading, the black half-glasses slid down over his nose. But at night, when she walked around her living room, in a T-shirt and shorts or in panties, pretending to go through magazines, books and newspapers, she looked to his window, and noticed his eyes, his eyes, definitely not looking at the newspaper. She always hurried in the morning, sweaty, wearing a sports bra in the days when she did not feel the desire to do exercises. Mr. Slippery spent the whole morning with the old men in the park below, taking sandwiches with eggs and coffee and sitting on the bench with the others. These were elderly men, past whom she, dressed in her modest clothes, had to run on her way to work, nodding to them, they sometimes nodded in response. But it was better if they were keen on discussing any article from the Daily Post or Racing Forms and ignored it altogether.
Tonight she just wanted to get up on the couch and watch a movie. But, instead, one idea captured her. It may have been a full moon. Perhaps it was her long-standing lack of relationships with a man or even a woman. Perhaps she spent too much time alone, at the computer, in front of the TV. For some reason, she realized that, alone or not, she had never, with the exception of the morning shower or bed, been truly naked in her own apartment.
To hell with Mr. Slippery. If he wants a show, he will get it.
Before starting, she ran to the bedroom and put a knit shirt and yoga pants on the arm of the couch, snuggling up with an ax murderer, by the time he cracked the locks she would have been dressed. Then she put out the whole world, with the exception of the TV, and put porn in the video player, which Artsi (a gorgeous body, a talented painter and a lousy lover) left her. She wondered if Mr. Slippery could see what was going on TV, but realized that there was a wrong angle for that.
Standing on the mat, she slowly pulled her black T-shirt up while staying in her bra and panties. And sneakers, she noted (dropping a glass in the kitchen last week, she was still careful). Well, to hell with them; sneakers can be removed by dropping them from their feet without unleashing. Who was this crazy chick? She smiled to herself.
She stretched out, she had long arms, she could almost touch them on the low ceiling of the apartment, standing on tiptoes. She ran down the front of the body, feeling all of her roundness, which she washed and hid under her clothes a thousand times before. What did other people see? What did Mr. Slippery see? She did not dare to look, but could see the light in his kitchen with side vision. What did Artsi see when he made love to her, when he possibly loved her? He told her once that he liked most of all when she was “dressed on top”, hiding her full breasts and elastic belly. It is not surprising that his new girlfriend was with a flat chest and ass on which to land a plane. She was not upset, she did not care. She did not think of Artsy. Her thoughts were about herself. Her body, her stunningly imperfect body, was still not naked on the screen.
Her hands shook as she unzipped her bra. When was the last time someone did it except her? Slowly ... one, two, three ... she allowed her breasts to fall out forward, holding them, like rare objects of art, exhibits of the museum, staring at them, as if they did not belong to her. Smooth, full, soft, she was surprised how beautiful they were. She crossed her arms, but not to close them, but just to squeeze them together. Her pink, tense nipples grew every time she moved. Her hands touched them, her hands moved along them.
Her panties, her beloved black, open her legs high, came to her an afterthought when she gazed out the window, noticing the thousands of open windows in the city lying in front of her. Taking off her panties, slowly, one foot after the other, holding the chair, she wondered who else saw the wonderful, liberated body that she had put on display. She was laid bare in her house! Come on, Killers with Axes! Tear off the post, Mr. Slippery!
Here she is, her excitement grew, her pride and admiration for herself grew at the same time as her cheeks were painted in pink. She bent to open the window, feeling the cool breeze on her chest, ass, pussy, arms and legs.
Free, vulnerable, one and involuntarily enthusiastic. She put her hair in order, disheveled by taking off her T-shirt. She did not know where to place her hands, did not know how to stand. How do naked people get up when they do not do something to bare, or not naked, or lying? She sighed heavily.
She looked out the window at Mr. Skolzky and met his eyes for the first time. Her mouth opened. He smiled broadly, a grin from ear to ear appeared on his face. Slowly he got up from his seat, turned and turned off the lights in the kitchen.
She froze for a moment. Slowly, she began to smile. She leaned out of the window, letting the wind ruffle her hair, and her nipples hardened.
She grinned and laughed, froze in place and felt the wind blowing on her a little harder. She turned around, with her back to the window, exposing the neighbors to the showing bare buttocks, and laughed like crazy. She shouted and waved to passersby on the street, who admired and not very much shouted back to her.
It was two in the morning when she went to bed. She slept, feeling the blanket over her whole body, and swam away, satisfied. And naked. Naked. Totally.