Adam found a note in his mailbox. I have watched you each night at six. Tonight, you watch me at my window.

Adam trembled. Someone knew. Someone had seen him studying people on the street below through the scope of his rifle. It had all been innocent, but the police would take a different view. Yet what could he do, not having any idea who wrote the note?

At precisely six the lights sprang to life one floor below him in an apartment across the street. A woman moved to the window, her face hidden by a feathered mask. For a long moment they looked at each other, then she stepped back and began to dance. Adam felt his excitement rising. After several minutes, however, she moved out of sight. The lights went off. Adam continued to watch until the drapes were drawn closed.

Rose shuddered in mixed relief and exhilaration. She felt the heat in her cheeks, the pounding of her pulse. Would he feel threatened, intrigued, angry? Would she be safe? She scarcely slept, almost expecting a pounding on her door.

The glow lasted through her work the next day at the nursing home. Some of her more alert residents commented, and even Mrs. Garcia--usually lost to forgetfulness--noticed her cheerfulness. There was no message in her mailbox when she got home, only two fliers addressed to resident. What would happen tonight? The clock seemed maddeningly slow, but at last it was six. From behind her closed curtains she saw him open his window. Rose felt relief, for the gun was not in sight--relief that lasted only until she realized it might be on the floor there beside him.

Rose slipped on her mask, and opened the drapes with trembling hands. Slowly, she began to move, swaying at first, letting the rhythm of the music take her body as the beat drummed away her reserve.

Adam had to know who she was. The mailbox in lobby of her building gave no clue, listing only an apartment number, but the six pack plus a fiver to the building super yielded a richer harvest. Rosita Morales, a single woman, quiet, had lived here for over 10 years, never any trouble, always paid her rent early. No idea where she worked, didn't seem to have much in the way of family or friends, a loner. Plain looking, but not ugly.

Adam began to stalk her. It was difficult, impossible on those days he worked two jobs, but each night at six he waited for her at his windowsill.

Rose found a message in her mailbox. It was simple, saying just this: I want to meet you.

She left a one-word reply in his mailbox: No.

That reply troubled Adam. She knew who he was. She knew he had a gun, that he had swept it across the street as if preparing to hunt the pedestrians below. Now she refused to meet him--but each night she danced. He thought more than once of buying a bullet, and each time put away the thought. Playing and shooting were altogether different. And, if even a fraction of the tales about life in prisons were true, he had no wish to be incarcerated. Yet she danced for him. Why?

She found a new note.

I still wish we could meet. Rosita, I dream of you. I love to watch you dance. Would you consider a bit less clothing?

Reading the note, she gasped. He knew who she was. But, no, not really--no one in the city called her Rosita. Of course she would not dance like that. No man had ever seen her naked, not even her fiancée John all those long years ago. She was not that kind of woman.

Still, she thought, he could not touch her, not hit her as John had in his drunken rages. With this man across the street, she would be in control. What harm could there be in a bit of teasing? Surely, with what girls wore today, showing just a little skin would not be too wicked. Glancing down, she looked at her own body. Not too good, not like when I was younger, she thought, but still nice.

Adam saw her open the drapes at six. Disappointment flooded him upon seeing that she was fully clothed. Then, unlike the earlier nights, the lights behind her went dark before she began to dance. He sat, waiting, watching intently, straining to see into the shadows.

Rose knew how hard it was to see into a darkened apartment. She would not give him her face--the mask would remain--but as she danced she unfastened the buttons on her blouse, feeling wonderfully naughty, and altogether desirable.

Adam cursed. He understood well enough her desire to preserve privacy for this performance, and it was clear that she had dropped her blouse--flashing white when it fell from her shoulders. The weak light frustrated his hopes.

Rose almost expected to find a note in her mailbox, but there was none. Each night she danced, and each night he watched. She grew more confident. No one else was likely to see her in the darkened apartment, and she took to tossing the blouse forward against the window pane. One night, emboldened by wine, her bra followed as well. It felt liberating to be so free, her hips swinging, her nipples tightening in excitement. The next day she did find a letter.

I think of you always. Must it be so dark in your apartment? I am desperate to meet you. I beg you.

It inflamed her.

"I could" she decided, "reward him just a little."

Adam was at his window at the appointed hour, waiting. Her drapes were tightly closed, but then they shifted, as if fanned from behind. His Rosita swept them aside and stood for a moment in the light, masked but bare breasted. She gave him only that one brief glimpse before she danced back into the shadows. His hopes grew, but then were crushed the next day by her note.

Never, it said, never can we meet. Do not ask again.

Her note decided him. He did, after all, have a fine scope. Adam was ready that night. Again she allowed just the briefest view before dancing away from the light. At that moment he picked up the rifle, using the scope's power of magnification to reveal what the shadows would have hidden.

While Rose was not near her window, Adam sat next to his. She gasped to see the sun glint on the gun barrel as it steadied to point at her. She leapt aside, slammed the drapes shut, tingling with the excitement of her escape. Tiny drops of perspiration beaded her face, her chest. Seeing these, she smiled. It was, she thought, wonderful to feel so alive again.

I have no bullets, his next note read. The scope only brings me closer to you. This time, for the first time, he signed it: Adam, who lives to watch you.

It encouraged Rose; perhaps he would understand. She left a reply. Using the scope would be allowed, so long as he did not use it to target others. She would not allow him ever again to use it sighting in innocents on the street below.

That night Rose did not panic when he lifted the gun. The adrenaline-charged giddiness of fear flooded her, but she refused to surrender, and continued to dance. At the end, when she stopped, she saw Adam put the gun aside, rise, and bow in her direction.

Adam kept his bargain, no longer using the rifle for any other purpose. It was odd, really. He could see naked women readily enough at the strip clubs, gals showing more flesh than his Rosita ever revealed. Yet that was somehow altogether different. He was sure she danced for him alone, rather than on a stage for any man with the cover charge. Rosita did have her price, of course, as her note made clear. He could not play at hunting passers-by.

Adam no longer asked to meet her. Perversely, her reply also comforted him. Excitement, he knew, flourished with mystery and tension, and those could dissolve in even a single meeting, transforming her from a fantasy into an ordinary woman.

How little different were the rhythms of his life, yet it was so much more interesting. Her dance swirled his emotions. Afraid that she might stop, he took to leaving a brief note for her almost every day. The vortex also caught Rose. Surely a good girl would not do this--yet it did keep him from aiming his gun elsewhere. That might have been a fair trade, if only the dance left her feeling either guilty or virtuous. Instead, she felt exhilarated, like a pagan goddess. The pleasure she took rebutted any argument that she was doing this only to protect others.

Her thrill in dancing ebbed as the days passed. Her performance, she rationalized, did no harm. Yet its very predictability slowly transformed it into work, a job that had no end in sight. Adam may have meant for his notes to buoy her up, but perversely they had the reverse result, chaining her to a ritual that felt ever more tawdry as the thrill dulled.

How could she quit? He knew where she lived. The barrier between them, so carefully constructed, would be no protection if she stopped. She thought of moving, of running again. Yet would that be enough? He might even know where she worked--certainly he knew her name. She could, perhaps, flee the city--only then would escape be certain.

How would Adam react, she wondered, if she just disappeared? How would she feel, should the television news report death spewing down from his window on people in the street?

Adam's pleasure faded as well, though more slowly. Having Rosita as his private dancer would never become boring, though he hungered for more. Not for her face. He knew it well, having seen her often on the street. Now he knew also the joining at her neckline, the line of her collarbones, the shape of her breasts, how they moved when she danced, the contrast of her dark nipples against lighter skin. But he knew not at all her hips, her thighs, the sweet joining of her legs.

Adam visited a strip club. It was strangely unsatisfactory. Those women--armored with indifference--kept nothing back in their dances: no mask, no modesty, no clothes. Or, they reserved only themselves, being ready enough to spread for inspection with no more prompting than the waving of a few dollar bills, but doing so in nearly mindless habit.

The next day Adam left a different sort of note.

I dream of you dancing nude. Make my dream come true. Your truest admirer.

She blushed to read it, but the briefest smile escaped before she could repress it. It would be scandalously exciting . Out of the question, of course. What would he do if she refused? He dreams of me. No, no, of course not, I won't, not even in the dark. I've never done that for any man.

Almost six. Rose sat at the mirror. I'm getting old, she thought, her fingertips massaging the fine lines at her eyes. I've never had a pretty face. Her look traveled down past her shoulders. A good body, though. Breasts still firm, only enough tummy to promise fertility, not like some stick thin model. Hips wide enough for easy delivery, if she ever conceived. What he asked was impossible, but perhaps she would allow him a smaller delight.

Adam could scarcely bear the slow ticking of the clock. The drapes in her window stayed closed, save at that six o'clock hour, as if his Rosita denied him any other glimpse of her life.

The drapes opened. Adam lifted the gun, setting the stock firmly against his shoulder and closing his left eye to concentrate his vision through the scope. The feathered mask, as always, lent an air of intrigue. Tonight she wore a dress with a long scarf, not the usual blouse and skirt combination. He followed her until she left his line of sight, saw the room darken when she turned off the lights. Then once more she stood at the window, and began to dance.

Rose started the cassette tape and went to the window, her pulse racing again. The music began, and she felt herself slipping into it, as she had not in recent nights. She raised her hands, undoing the pin that held captive her hair. Then, with a step away from the window, watching him as he watched her, she surrendered to the music.

Adam felt his neck complaining, bent as it was to hold his right eye to the scope. Rosita was dancing longer tonight, and still she was not done. First her dress fell away, then the bra, though a scarf took its place until it too was flung away, leaving just a red half slip. Twice she seemed ready to drop that as well; each time Adam found himself holding his breath. But then her curtains closed.

Sighing, he put the gun away. Such a woman! Oh, he knew Rosita was no great beauty. Yet she smoldered with passion; the contrast with the club strippers could hardly be greater. She offered herself in the dance, while they hid themselves in it. He had watched her walking on the street, had tasted the sensuousness that fogged the air around her. More than one day, when the wind was still, he crossed unobserved behind her in the street, to breathe in the fragrance that lingered in her passing.

Rose was sweating. Partly because she had danced longer, three songs instead of one. Partly it was knowing how close she had twice come to shedding the half slip. She might have, she knew, except for her panties, the white whale sort that were so practical. They saved her by their very ordinariness. Ah, it had been thrilling to dance like that, knifed on passion's edge. She let her hand fall until it rested lightly between her thighs, delighted at its throbbing rush. One touch proved too much, or too little. Closing her eyes, she traced the patterns of her frustrated passion.

Adam did not sleep well. Nothing he could do was enough to end his desire; bouts of fitful sleep stirred him time and again with dreams of Rosita. Dawn came, and with it another workday, but thoughts of her still tormented him.

You are driving me crazy, his next note read. Why did you stop? I am desperate to admire all of you.

Reading the note, she smiled. The memory of it still aroused her--the tingling of her skin, the sweet aching, pulsing heat that melted inhibition. To her surprize, her nipples stiffened at the remembrance. Still, it was not unblemished, that recollection; guilt tinged her pleasure increasingly as awareness grew of how easily she might have shed the last of her clothes. Adam did not, she reassured herself, need to see the least bit more.

She danced again at six, the music chosen to banish thought, powerful rhythms driving her hips. Once more she stripped to just the half slip, wearing under it as a preventative another pair of those bloomers. Too soon the music ended. Emboldened by the fire that still surged in her veins, she strode forward to the window, pausing there topless and unashamed long enough to blow him a kiss from her fingertip.

The intoxication she felt could not last, and in its fading came an emptiness stained by shame and self-loathing. Sleep did not come easily to Rose.

Nor to Adam either. He knew it for an obsession, and cared not at all. To be with her. To touch her skin. To breathe in the scent of her hair, to taste her nipples. To be inside her. Yet none of these, not even the least, could happen if she held him away. He had to meet her. He had to. The next morning he tried to greet her as she left for work.

Adam never got to speak. She glared at him, and spoke first.

"Say a single word, and it's over. Do this again, and it's over. Do you understand?"

He was stunned. That blown kiss meant nothing? Was it not an invitation? He said nothing, only nodded his shame-faced assent.

The incident haunted them both. Rose pummeled herself emotionally, knowing how she encouraged his devotions only to spurn him. Adam, desperate to make peace, left in her mailbox a letter with the most abject apologies, one Rose read with mixed relief and still greater guilt.

That night, driven to make her own amends, she slipped into newly bought panties, sheer and scanty, their dusky gold only a hint different from her own skin tone. That night, before the drapes closed, Rose for the first time cast away her slip.

Adam's confusion and arousal both grew unbearable. What was she doing? Why now, after rejecting him so plainly? Was she nude? No, not quite, he decided, though her dark promise was not entirely hidden by the delicate fabric. Caught on the edge of release, he was careful not to move, studying these new secrets, admiring her hips, the fertile fullness of her abdomen, those inviting thighs. A real woman, not some scarecrow. Even after the drapes closed, he sat there throbbing, afraid to move, eyes closed in sweet memory.

Rose woke in the morning, knowing it was over. That dance completed her apology; this Sunday she would find a priest for confession. Rose tried to convince herself that - in the beginning - her purpose had been pure, to turn the gun away from children on the street, but yesterday she danced for the dance - for herself, not for others. She remembered too touching her nipples before she began the dance, and how she exulted in pulling on those ravishingly sheer panties. She would not allow that to happen again.

I long for you, Adam wrote, though we never meet. You fill my days with dreams, and my nights with desire. For last night especially, I thank you.

Reading it, her resolve melted. So, again that night she danced, though the remorse that followed made stronger her determination to go to confession.

Repent, the priest told her. Change your ways, he said. And what else could he say? She knew he was right. She knew her dancing was wrong. She would stop.

Adam waited at his window. But Rosita did not appear. So too the next night, and the night after. He knew she still lived there, he knew she was well enough to go to work. Yet her curtains remained tightly closed. Had he somehow offended her? Was it better to say nothing? What words might entice her back to the window?

Forgive me, he wrote. Whatever I have done, forgive me.

Rose read the note, and wept. She did not dance. At church she lit candles to the Virgin of Guadalupe, asking for help and strength.

He wrote again. And again. Her curtains remained closed. Finally, in frustration, he returned to the strip club, only to come home disgusted.

The next night he did not bother to wait. And he did not limit himself to just a few potential victims; he played at the hunt until his arm grew tired. He did not know Rose was watching, as she did each night. She saw him steady his aim on one person. Then on a second, and then a third. There was no way to tell who he had chosen, not without revealing herself. But Adam did not stop. Before he always stopped at three, but tonight the rifle sought a dozen or more as she watched in increasingly horrified silence. What have I done, she thought, over and over, driving her anguish deeper.

He found a note in his mailbox the next night.

Do not point your gun at others, it read. It terrifies me. I will dance.

So it began again, with her control broken. She danced as she did the first night, blouse and skirt, far from the window, never shedding her bra. Adam saw what she was doing, understood that he had but a single chance. After she finished, he kept the rifle at the window, sure she would watch, and selected potential victims one after another.

There is no going backward, his next note read. You know what I mean. Make your choice.

In a way, it was a relief. Before she alone decided, and so every excess in her dancing was to her shame. Now it was different. Yes, the priest said to repent, but could she not be truly sorry and still dance in self-sacrifice? The spirit of the music took her again that night, as she let loose all her defenses. At the end only those golden panties and her mask remained. When the third song ended she went to the window directly, defiantly, lifting her arms to yank the drapes shut. It was--exhilarating. She felt wonderful, but knew the euphoria would not last, that it would be followed by doubt, by anxiety and loathing. But for the moment she pushed that knowledge aside, and exulted in her challenge.

Adam trembled. Rosita danced as if possessed, sullen and erotic all at once, and then yielded up the boldest view ever, not moving out of sight to close the curtains, instead striding directly to the window, looking hard at him. What a woman. And she danced this time because he had ordered it. What else might be possible now?

One thing at a time, he said, one thing at a time. First her panties, then the mask, and finally he would demand to meet her. Rosita would not brush him off again.

She was prepared for his note, but not for the message. He insisted that she remove even the last undergarment, that she reveal herself completely to him. She wept. This was impossible; she would leave, quit her job, go to another city, abandon everything she could not carry on the train. Yet it could not be tonight. She needed at least a few days to prepare.

So, when she next danced, she kept those two last safeguards--mask and panties--and neither fell. It would have to be enough.

He found her note.

I cannot, it said. The shame would kill me. Do not ask it.

He watched, and wondered. Had he been wrong? Had he misread his chance to compel her, as he had misunderstood that one blown kiss? Or had he been right--could he force her to yield? He wanted her dancing for him in his own apartment, the two of them together, not watching her at this terrible distance. He longed to breathe in her fragrance, to feel the air move as she swirled near him. To take her into his arms, into his bed, to bury himself in her.

He knew such sentiments would frighten her. So, instead, he wrote that the last bit of cloth did not matter, if only he might be with her when she danced.

He could not guess that such words would terrify her with fresh nightmares about her boyfriend those many years ago, memories she still struggled to push away. The thought of being naked near any man overwhelmed her. She did not dance that evening. Let him, Rose decided, do what he would. She would quit her job tomorrow. And she did, not having any idea yet where she would go, or what she would do. Until she opened her mailbox and saw his note, she was certain of her course.

I bought bullets, it said. What would you have me do? She did not know that he bluffed.

Rose collapsed on her bed. Bullets. Even if she left, he would still have them. She did not dance that night, but did stand hidden to watch as his rifle chose its targets. Unable to bear it, she went downstairs, went outside, looked at the people on the street. Four girls, playing skip rope. One derelict passed out in a vacant doorway. People of various ages talking, working on cars, walking. New nightmares assailed her that night.

Adam grew angry when she failed to appear. The next day before coming home he bought ammunition, but in his mailbox was a note.

I feel trapped and cannot bear it. I offer you this much. Tonight I end with just the mask. Tomorrow I leave forever. Do what you will -- your sins are your own.

Adam was stunned. Leaving. She was deserting him, abandoning him. Or offering herself up as a sacrifice. Adam longed to have her beside him, she refused to talk to him, rejected every attempt to get to know her.

Rose shook. It was almost six, and tonight she would end it, one way or another. She almost hoped her dare had worked, that she would not wake in the morning to pack what she could carry, that she would not have to start over. Almost, but not quite, for that hope was too close to suicide, and wrong. Better that he should watch this last time, and let her leave.

Indecision tormented Adam. Two menial jobs and no future, just years of work with the prospect of deeper poverty if he quit or fell ill. No girlfriend, no family either unless you counted his cat Diablo. And now Rosita was going away.

Rose was hesitant at first, unsure of herself, anxious, frightened. Yet the body knows, and grows accustomed to familiar patterns. The music began; her awkwardness faded. Three songs played, and she was again down to just the golden panties and her mask. Then the fourth began. She walked closer to the window, bent and slipped off that last golden garment, revealing herself to him. Then, moving back into the shadows, Rose closed her eyes and continued to dance.

Adam focused the scope on her as soon as her drapes opened. He saw how tentative she was at first, but then her dancing became less forced, more natural. When the third dance was over, Rosita had not--as promised--shed the last of her clothes. He felt oddly relieved, lifted his head from the scope, and was rewarded when she walked closer to the window, the slanting rays of the evening sun caressing her body and gifting him with a tantalizing glimpse of treasure not revealed. But--instead of closing the drapes--she bent and dropped her panties. A fourth dance began. He could not help but look, eager for the sight, but his eyes still fought to watch her face as well. She stepped back. He ducked his head back to the scope, unwilling to miss the least detail. Still, at the same time, he could not help but wonder: What was she thinking? Could she want him to shoot?

The fourth song ended. Rose felt relief, sudden joy at being alive. Yes, she was nude, but now it ended. Adam would keep his gun, or not--it was not her problem any longer. She was free, and surely he understood that. Even if the future was uncertain, she knew she would in whatever new life she created rediscover passion. Her days of self-isolation, of hiding away--they were over. She stepped closer to the curtains, not caring that he was seeing her now as he never had before, and never would again, sunlight warm on her skin as she lifted her arms. She drew the drapes partway closed, then paused, taking her last look at Adam across the street as mentally she bid her old life farewell.

Adam watched the last dance with the safety still on. If only he could know what she wanted! But there was no way to ask, not even to exchange notes, not if she was leaving tomorrow. He could not do it. Rosita had brightened his life, made him come alive again; he never wanted to harm her, only to be with her. Surely she did not want him to act now. He saw her end the dance, how she moved forward into the light, almost as if daring him. Was that her message? He thumbed off the safety, but hesitated. Surely she did not mean it. Then her arms rose, as if to pull the windows shut. It was a relief. Rosita would not be doing that if she really meant it. But then she stopped.

He knew she was looking at him. Waiting. Was he too afraid to do this for her? No, not if she wanted it. His body knew the pattern from long practice. Inhale. Exhale. Hold the breath, steady the aim, squeeze.

The bullet's impact threw Rose away from the window. Odd, she thought, how he decided to do it after all. She wondered briefly in her last seconds what the police would say to find her here, naked save for a feathered mask.

The blast thundered in Adam's ears even as the recoil jolted him. Still, he saw Rosita lurch away, and knew the bullet took her. The thought of killing nearly made him sick, but he fought off the nausea. All he ever wanted, he told himself, was to be with her, and now she was gone. Surely there should have been some other way for this to end.

It was too late now. Or perhaps not? He still wanted was to be with her, and he had one final chance before the police arrived. Yes, he could be with Rosita still.

Copyright © 2002 David Kirkland
All rights reserved

About the Author

      David Kirkland, when not wearing a kilt for Scottish dance, working on tai chi, or climbing his fruit trees, may often be found writing tanka, short fiction, and a new urban fantasy that reveals the true history of the dark elves. He resides in Missouri and finds his work much improved -- sometimes painfully so -- by critique from the writers' group Liar's Ink.

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