Day two. The round window felt reminiscent of an eye. That and the rude, unmade bed made me think of a sad, solitary watcher. Who was he watching? For what end? Come join us for the vigil.
The Vigil
I never use the lamp.
I brought it up to the attic, of course, for the possibility of reading. By day the
great window gives enough light to read by and by night… well, we know the
problems of lighting a lamp by night. It would mean that they could see in,
that I couldn’t see out.
That you could see in, that I could not see you.
You don’t know to keep your lamps out. Don’t know or don’t
care, it’s all the same. While your windows aren’t as grand as mine, they are
broad enough and tall enough and covered only by the thinnest, gauziest of
shades. Pinprick shades, some call them. Not enough to keep you safe, to keep
your lamplight from spilling outside to where they can see you.
You likely don’t even think about them.
That’s OK. I do. And I watch.
It’s lonely, this vigil from the attic with no company save
the empty bottle and the sounds of crickets. No company save for the lonely,
hard men outside. The ones who walk with their eyes up, hoping to peek through
those pinprick shades for a glance at the swell of your breasts, the curve of
your hip, the delicate lines of your neck. From up here I see all of them.
If any tried anything, I’d be there in a flash.
You don’t know it, but you’re safe. I keep you safe, through
the lonely, dark nights. In the daylight I leave, my attic bed unmade, my
window gazing at yours, my home’s eye to your home’s eye, my home’s soul to
yours.
In the night I return to my vigil. I never use the lamp.
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