Dust to Dust

Behind a Venetian blind, in the upper room of a high-ceilinged house, a woman moves. Nothing except her wrist and forearm are visible. The arm is bare and slender. Slim fingers wield a dusting cloth, like a pianist polishing their instrument prior to a long day of recital. She has better things to do, but this is a necessary prelude to them. A suggestion of jewellery; a bracelet or watch, in a loose cinch around the wrist.

He guesses that she cleans a vase or some unseen fixture. Her half-hiddenness gives her an air of mystique, though, and he clings to the idea that she is one of those housewives who clean in the nude. She is confident in the privacy of walls, and discards clothes whenever she can. He remembers the women at his old office talking about it, and finds it indescribably erotic to think of them, toiling in their underwear. Grunting and pink-faced, holding dustpan and brush, gussets stretched tight across the divide, thrown limbs dampening their cunts, their swollen tits jostling and straining beneath black lace or underwired satin.

It charges the moment with allure as he squints through the grimy windscreen, between lines of reflecting sunlight. Inching the car forward, he narrows distance and periphery, polarising her in the dark, hidden space she occupies. Once attuned, he searches for the deeper detail; giddy in the blatancy of his act. His mind is alert now, a clarity of focus one-pointed by the thrill of arousal and he knows, more than ever in that moment, that he is an unbelonging savage.

It isn't as though he is lurking under her window or stair, hoping for a flash of bare or covered crotch as she descends. His eye just happened to land on her. Besides, he remains unseen by angles of glazing and elevation, and in this way feels empowered, free to subsidise the tedium of queuing with idle speculation, for as long as the interlude lasts.

As though suddenly aware, the blind descends, severing the tenor of his fantastic thoughts. He feels obscurely cheated, as though she had teased him deliberately. The other hand has been holding the sash all along, only ever interested in completing the chore. Then the lights change, and the moment is lost as the traffic moves off like a herd, watchful and bustling.