Peeping Tom

Usually, I’m out and about when adventure strikes.

Post-morning-run, slimy with sweat, a thickening fog from the rain shower-head overcasts the mosaic-tiled bathroom during my ablutions. I pull the window lever to provide some relief and gaze out at the pretty steam clouds billowing toward escape. Lost in a hazy numinous trance of wonder. Me, in nothing but a towel.

No, I won't include a picture of that, you pervert!

The scene of the crime.

Lost in my reverie, a face appears in the window. A flash of salt and pepper hair, wide eyes broadcasting their alarm at being found out. He couldn't look away and nor could I. In my nakedness, we shared an intimate moment. I was paralyzed by the face in the window. Dazed and confused.

How long had he been there? Watching. Waiting. Anticipating his moment of peeping glory?

I blinked, and he left with the most spiteful glower. Stunned, I should incommode his uninterrupted entry.

Still, I left the window open flirtatiously when I went out for a stroll, hoping the unexpected visitor would return to meet my husband who slumbered, none-the-wiser on the rubbery detox mattresses sprawled across the wooden pallets upstairs.

A cousin of The Peeping Tom roaming the streets of Belgrade.