He's a voyeur. He likes watching. She's a reverse-voyeur. She likes being watched. And when the twain made acquaintance through their respective French windows, they created an episode that would stay etched in their memories for a long, long time. The first time he saw her, it was through a sheet of sudden rain that had poured down the moody skies. She seemed to have emerged from the shower, hair still dripping, body semi-damp, wrapped in nothing but a towel that barely covered her.
Now he didn't know whether her flimsy modesty-concealer decided to develop a mind of its own and defy gravity, or it'd been assisted by a persuasive tug of her hand. And there it was. There she was. He stared, transfixed, overcome by the growing desire to reach out through the rain and make electric contact with her bare skin.
But she suddenly cut eye contact and walked away. Only to open her risqué-lingerie-stacked armoire in a manner that he could watch her watching herself in the large ornate mirror. She stood with her back to window, immobile except for the gentle heaving of her chest. And just as she stayed frozen to forbid herself from satisfying the animal impulses that rose within, so did he.
The duo lost all track of time; she stayed stock-still just as she used in her heyday as a nude model for the biggest art school in town; he watched, equally stationary till the deluge thinned into a drizzle, then barely-there droplets. He slipped out of his staid investment banker suit and leather shoes and proceeded towards the easel his steady girlfriend had gifted him on their fifth anniversary.
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