The Light

He felt the lights in the window calling to him. He moved closer, letting his weight slowly down on the thick underbrush, trying to avoid the inevitable snap and crack. Crouching in the brushes nearest the dark side of the cabin, he looked across the ten feet of clearing before the cabin. He felt the warmth pulling to him, an oasis in the desert of the night.

He knew who lived here, he had seen her before. At the market was the first time, getting into the car. He noticed the license plate and made a mental note to look for it on the highway. He had. In a small town like this it was easy to spot anyone or anything. It had taken a week, but he knew where she lived. In the evening he had gone out of his way to drive by the cabin, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. All he ever saw were the lights from the windows. And now here he was. He knew she was inside the house. Inside his head.

The half moon night helped. He could make out the lace curtains in the windows. He heard the beat of the music playing inside. Somehow it seemed to match the beating in his chest. He could make out her movements as she went from room to room. If he was closer, he could peer through the windows. The light was pulling to him, the darkness holding him back. He knew that if he crossed the final clearing there would be no turning back. The conflict tore at him, but to stop now was to let a part of him die. He had come so far already.

He might have stayed all night, but a new light came on and a window opened slowly. The drums came to him louder now. The powerful sound of water running into a bathtub began. He felt a familiar stirring in his pants. He counted to a hundred before making his move. He could hear a cabinet being opened and jars clanking as he moved to the side of the house. Back against the wall, chest beating twice as fast as the drums. He could feel his heart in his throat. His erection was gone, but he knew it would return.

Glancing around the area, he saw her silhouette against the trees. He imagined her unbuttoning the silk blouse and dropping it to the floor, then peeling off some sort of panties, preparing to step into the tub. One leg gingerly touches the toes to the water, frozen in that one moment in time, looking like a classical goddess.

He turned, facing the wall. He tilted to shoot a glance into the first window. The living room was empty, awaiting the mistresses return. The rug in the room caught his attention, a large white bearskin rug. He looked into the dead eyes of the bear that was forever screaming in silence. He wondered if she ever rolled naked on it, perhaps she had made love on it. His hard on had returned.

He made his way to the next window and peered inside. Her bedroom. He became aware of the drums again. He could see the dresser with its top drawer open. Pictures on the mirror. The bed next caught his notice. It stood almost three feet off the floor, covered with a plump down spread. It looked more like an altar than a place to sleep. He could almost see her climbing into it. He resisted the urge to touch himself, waiting instead for the next window.

He wanted to see her laying in the tub, scrubbed, fresh and pink. Her hair would be dark and wet, framing her head and then clinging to her shoulders. She would rise from the bath and he would slow down time to watch the tiny rivulets of water run down her neck to between her breasts. Downward, over her belly then disappear in her triangle of hair. He could wait no longer.

Inching along the wall to the opened slit to the bathroom window, taking more care that ever, he heard her humming in time with the music that was both from the stereo and from him. She was humming to him, calling him to worship her.

He reached the window and paused. He needed to catch his breath. He could smell her perfumes and soaps. He could smell her. He needed to see her. Touch her. Taste her. Possess her.

He turned again to the wall, pressing against it, as though whatever life there was in the wood would satisfy him. The opening just inches from his eyes, his nose burned into the wood. He moved his head so one eye could peer through. His heart was in his throat and pants. Her humming and smells were a part of him now.

His eye told him it was safe. He moved under the window, his fingers holding onto the sill like a child at a candy counter. He raised his head to feast both eyes. He could feel the moisture from the steam under his fingers. He felt alive.

The steam was filling the air. He couldn't make anything out. Suddenly she was at the window. He froze in fear. He could see a black robe clinging to her features, parting to reveal a soft curve of her breast as she flung open the window. She reached beside the window and with a flurry of movement, brought a belt down around his neck. He could feel the leather biting into his throat as she pulled the belt and tied it off. She lowered herself to level with his face.

He struggled against his bond, feeling the window sill pressing his Adams apple back inside his throat, she watched with an amused detachment.

"So good of you to come. What took you so long?"