Flash Fiction: Voyeur
Jul. 30th, 2009 03:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wordwhackerWritten for Word #115 over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15_minute_fic
Voyeur (flash, 353 words)
It had always been easy for him to spot the ones that really cared about how they looked. They carried themselves differently, lingered at different points of motion when they walked, seemed to look through different eyes. He found it intimidating and fascinating; a treasure of information processing that gave him something to chew on.
It was more than just a pretty face.
It was more than just the sense of how to wear a piece of clothing, knowing how the fabric could drape, swish and move. More than sensing the keen differences of colours, the splashes of interest. More than understanding the fragmentation of the body that garments create, the separation of limb from trunk, hip from thigh.
Sandra smiled up at him from across the restaurant. He watched her like this every Thursday after work. Their schedules somehow slid into synch with one another on that day, and once he sensed that pattern he'd built it permanently into his routine. He liked knowing how he was to spend each day, the certainty that buckled him against difference.
She was pleasing to watch because she was pleased to be watched. It wasn't coyness that drew him in, it was confidence.
Sandra was, for him, aesthetics incarnate: focused, attentive beauty. Untouchable.
On the third week, she crossed the room to speak with him. He watched her walking, watched everything he had come to know about her. It was inevitable now.
She stood before him and said, "Hey."
He didn't respond. He looked away from her, picking a crisp corner of the table to focus on. After a moment she repeated herself. He could hear the sounds of his internal function high in his ears - breathing, heart beating, sweat appearing on the nape of his neck. His own sounds drowned out the little noises she made - trying to get his attention, sighing, the movement of her clothes and click of her heels as she walked away in defeat. He was still.
When she had gone, he stood up and left the restaurant. He wouldn't be returning.
She was no longer his object.
15_minute_ficVoyeur (flash, 353 words)
It had always been easy for him to spot the ones that really cared about how they looked. They carried themselves differently, lingered at different points of motion when they walked, seemed to look through different eyes. He found it intimidating and fascinating; a treasure of information processing that gave him something to chew on.
It was more than just a pretty face.
It was more than just the sense of how to wear a piece of clothing, knowing how the fabric could drape, swish and move. More than sensing the keen differences of colours, the splashes of interest. More than understanding the fragmentation of the body that garments create, the separation of limb from trunk, hip from thigh.
Sandra smiled up at him from across the restaurant. He watched her like this every Thursday after work. Their schedules somehow slid into synch with one another on that day, and once he sensed that pattern he'd built it permanently into his routine. He liked knowing how he was to spend each day, the certainty that buckled him against difference.
She was pleasing to watch because she was pleased to be watched. It wasn't coyness that drew him in, it was confidence.
Sandra was, for him, aesthetics incarnate: focused, attentive beauty. Untouchable.
On the third week, she crossed the room to speak with him. He watched her walking, watched everything he had come to know about her. It was inevitable now.
She stood before him and said, "Hey."
He didn't respond. He looked away from her, picking a crisp corner of the table to focus on. After a moment she repeated herself. He could hear the sounds of his internal function high in his ears - breathing, heart beating, sweat appearing on the nape of his neck. His own sounds drowned out the little noises she made - trying to get his attention, sighing, the movement of her clothes and click of her heels as she walked away in defeat. He was still.
When she had gone, he stood up and left the restaurant. He wouldn't be returning.
She was no longer his object.
