I’m not a voyeur. I’m not a private detective or a spy or NSA either. I don’t get paid to watch people. If anything, I hate acknowledging that other humans even exist most of the time.
But while I was laid up last summer that changed.
You can only watch TV for so long before it all starts to bleed together. Whodunit of the week, “we can’t let anyone know about our relationship,” shows with no point other than the “to be continued” message at the end.
Reading was out of the question too. My arm didn’t work so I could not hold a book. I’m a Luddite and can’t read on a tablet either.
So it was inevitable that between the many pain-medication induced naps that I’d start people watching. Looking out the window of my top floor apartment I could see the park below, the walkers. Distantly I could see the mist-shrouded mounted. And, lastly, I could look into the windows of the apartment building directly across from me.
The majority of it was mundane. I’ll bore you with that later. The part you care about, and the point of this story, was the guy in room 612 and the thing he did and the things I made him do in front of that window.
Random Rear Window-ish story musings.