She hated walking around her apartment at night without something on; a T-shirt, panties, shorts, sweats, anything. Whether it was modesty (although she looked pretty darn fine - well okay), or merely paranoia (the proverbial ax-murderer wasn't getting any cheap thrills when he busted in), she didn't know. Besides, she knew full well that her neighbor across the way, on the opposite side of the building, had an all-access view into her living room.
She knew because "Mr. Slippery" -- she called him that because his hair-grease used to maintain his comb over made him look like a damaged bird from the Exxon Valdez disaster - told her himself. He came right out and said to her, in the elevator one day, "I can see into your window, ya know...you're a night owl, like me." She wondered if he would've said that if she were married, or clearly, actively involved. Fucking pervert. He'd sit at his kitchen table, Mr. Slippery, at his oilcloth-covered table, pretending to read, black half-glasses sliding down his nose. But at night, when she'd stroll around her living room, in T-shirt and shorts, panties, pretending to pick up the clutter of magazines, books and newspapers, she'd glance over to his window, and spy him peering over, his eyes definitely veering away from his newspaper. Her dance tapes she'd always do in the morning, sweaty and sports-bra clad, on the days she didn't feel like hitting the gym. Mr. Slippery hung out with the old men downstairs on the block by the park, around that time of morning, picking up egg sandwiches and coffee and sitting on the park bench with the rest of them. It was a gauntlet of elderly men that she had to run on her way to work; nodding at them, dressed in her modest suits, they sometimes nodded back. Better yet, they would be involved in some intense discussion over something in the Daily Post or the Racing Form and would ignore her entirely.
Tonight she just wanted to kick up her legs on the sofa and watch a movie. But, instead, an idea caught hold of her. Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe it was all that bending down in her tight t-shirt, or her recent lack of social activity with anyone, of any gender. Perhaps, she'd been spending too much time alone, behind the computer, in front of the TV. For whatever reason, she realized that, alone or not, she'd never really, except for hastily getting showered in the morning or under the blankets getting laid, she'd never been really and truly naked in her own apartment.
Fuck Mr. Slippery. If he wanted a show, he was going to get one.
Before she started, she ran to the bedroom and put a sweatshirt and yoga pants on the arm of the sofa, ax-murderer insurance, by the time he'd gotten through the locks she'd be dressed, naturally. Then she turned out all the lights, except for the TV, and put in the porn tape that Mr. Artsy (great body, talented painter, lousy lay) had left her. She wondered if Mr. Slippery could see what was on the TV, but imagined it was the wrong angle.
