a little and looked up from her book, and Alan took an instinctive step back, sure that he’d somehow been spotted. She stood, though, without looking toward the window at all. She disappeared out of sight, then returned to the couch, that white cat called Sanders walking with her. The cat leapt onto the coffee table. The woman returned to the sofa and the book, idly scratching Sanders under its chin. He belonged to a woman on the other side of the building, but was allowed to roam the place at free will. Alan had seen him frequently in the lobby, sometimes sleeping on top of the reception desk.
Alan snapped the nearest lamp off, so that his own living room was plunged into near darkness, and continued to watch the woman. She looked so at peace, so content within the small sphere of her existence, that Alan felt an almost physical pain in his chest, a sharp desire to be with her. He imagined himself stretched out on the other side of the couch, their bare feet touching. In this fantasy, he only knew that they were completely at ease with one another.
The track on the record was “My Buddy,” and Alan realized just how long he had been staring out the window. He pushed the curtains closed and sat back down on the couch. His phone vibrated: a text from Quinn that she was at the bar. He wrote back, telling her to say Hi to everyone. She wrote back a half second later: Mike said to say you are a losah!
The record ended, and Alan sat in the quiet apartment. He thought of playing something else, or looking for a movie to watch, but all he could think about was continuing to watch the woman. He got up, returned to the window, and peered through again. She was still reading on the couch, but Sanders the cat was gone, and she’d pulled her legs up so that her book was propped against her knees. Alan remembered that he had binoculars, a small pair that he’d bought that year he’d split a Celtics season ticket in the nosebleeds with some of his college friends. He couldn’t remember exactly where they were, but guessed they were still in the canvas messenger bag he’d been using back then. He went and checked, and he’d guessed right. With the binoculars in his hand, he hesitated, knowing somehow that there was a genuine difference between simply watching your neighbor through a window and watching her with a pair of binoculars. It will be just for a moment, he told himself. A way to get a really good look at her, maybe even see what book she’s reading.
He returned to the window, and peered through the binoculars. It made her look as though she was about eight feet away. He could see her features clearly, the texture of her clothes, the way she was absentmindedly touching one of her earlobes with a finger. The book was called Wolf Hall, large black-and-white font on a red cover. She licked the tip of a finger with her tongue before turning a page.
Alan felt his breathing slow down and get heavier. Looking at her up close he felt dirtier, aware that what he was doing was wrong, but unable to stop himself. She wore old jeans, the denim splitting at the knees, and a tight crewneck sweater with black and brown stripes. She yawned, arching her back, and he could see a sliver of her pink stomach. Alan felt himself stiffen in his pants, and that reaction caused him to lower the binoculars, pull the curtains shut, and step away. Feverish shame swept over him, as though he had suddenly become ill.
He put the binoculars in his underwear drawer, then undressed, pulled on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, brushed his teeth, and got into bed. He read for a while. John Le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. He’d read it before, but not since middle school. His eyes scanned the words while he thought of the girl in the window. He wondered what her life was like, if she had a boyfriend. Maybe he was out for the night the way Quinn was. He didn’t think so, though. There was something about the way she looked in her apartment that made Alan think she lived there alone.
He tried to read some more, then shut the book, turned out the light, and lay awake, listening to