(no, this is not autobiographical)
She slid her bra off by rolling her shoulders forward and letting it drop into her hands. Her oft practiced method revealed little but triangular buds. She itched the reddened indentations left by the straps on her pale skin. Then she inhaled in order to unbutton her jeans. They dropped to the ground where she pulled them off by stepping on the slack under her foot and lifting each leg. Her underwear stayed on but not without repositioning. She wasted no time reaching down to the bed and lifted a night shirt with some cartoony, Mickey Mouse embossing on it. In one motion she oriented the shirt with the embossing on the front and dropped it over her head. Her head and arms sliding straight into their appropriate holes. It snagged on her underwear where it remained and though it seemed like she was aware of this fact, something on the TV screen grabbed her attention. There she stood, motionless with her nightshirt caught on her white cotton underwear. She must be watching an action program, because the lights are flickering rapidly and randomly. With two hands she reaches into her panties to readjust her skin front and back. She reaches up to turn off the light in the center of the room and for a brief moment, she becomes a shadow. She turns on her lamp and she became a silhouette. She climbs into bed, props her head up on the pillow and rests a paperback on her knees.
He, on the other hand, is carefully balanced on the precariously hollowed log. He could feel whatever form of tree bugs existed in these woods as they crawled over his hands. The darkness magnified them. He slapped his leg leaving splattered bug bits but he never stops watching. He is able to watch because he realizes something that apparently she doesn’t that when it comes to venetian blinds, it is all about the angles. If he wasn’t perched on a slope of a hill, if he wasn’t two feet off the ground on some rotted log and if he didn’t lean upslope, he would not see a thing and she would remain secure in her illusion of privacy. Tonight he is done. He walks home knowing that immediately after the eleven o’clock news and the opening monologue of Letterman, he could prop himself up again, endure bug bites he would never otherwise endure and begin his six minute vigil again.
Questions for BoMR: Can you write about something you know nothing about? Or is every word an unintentional autobiography?
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