11-04-2025, 09:17 PM
I didn’t go in right away.
My hand was on the grill, but my eyes were on him.
That man.
The one sitting at the gate like a statue with cheap sunglasses and half-buttoned shirt.
Security.
Middle-aged. Balding slightly. One slipper torn at the side. Radio always hanging from his neck but never working.
And eyes?
Always busy.
Every time I stepped out, every single time, his eyes had some job. Sometimes on my feet. Sometimes chest. Sometimes backside when I walk away.
I stood there for two seconds.
He was pretending to look away. Acting like he was watching the kids in the flat opposite.
But I saw.
I saw him seeing.
So I walked toward him.
Slow steps. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just real.
He noticed.
Sat straighter. Legs uncrossed. Hand on his knee.
Still didn’t look directly.
I stopped two feet from him.
He looked up.
Tried to act confused.
I didn’t waste time.
“You’ll never stop, right?”
He blinked.
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I—”
“You look every single day. Like you’re paid to stare.”
“No, ma’am... I was just—”
“What? Looking at the wall? Or my bra strap?”
His face went red.
He looked down.
I folded my arms across my chest. Not to hide anything. Just to show I wasn’t scared.
“You’ve been doing it for days. I’ve seen it. You think women don’t notice when your eyes crawl over them?”
“No ma’am, I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean to get caught. That’s all.”
He scratched his chin. “Sorry ma’am... I just—”
“You just what?”
“I was not staring intentionally…”
I laughed. Just once.
That bitter one.
“Men like you always say the same thing. Not intentional. Not your fault. Not staring. But your eyes will peel off a woman’s clothes in three seconds.”
“I didn’t... I just saw—”
“You saw what?”
His mouth stayed open.
I looked him up and down once.
“Do you think I don’t know when someone’s eyes are sliding across my chest?”
Silence.
“Next time I catch you, I’ll complain.”
“No ma’am, please. Don’t. I have family... I won’t do again.”
I nodded once.
“Don’t do it again. Keep your eyes where they belong. On the gate. Not on my blouse.”
“Yes ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”
I turned.
Walked away.
But inside?
That heat didn’t die.
Not from anger.
But from something else.
Something dirtier.
Because the truth?
I liked it.
I hated him for it. But I liked the way he looked.
Not because I liked him.
But because it meant I was still wanted.
Still seen.
Even in a sweaty nightie. Even with tired eyes. Even with milk stain on my shoulder.
That look told me—my body still speaks.
I entered the house.
Closed the door.
Leaning against the wooden frame, I let out a slow breath.
My hand touched the curve of my waist. Lightly.
My own skin felt warm.
I moved inside.
Kitchen was clean.
Plates done. Lunch packed. House quiet.
No Kartik. No Arjun. No kids.
Just me.
And this silence.
I washed my hands. Wiped the counter. Opened the bathroom door.
Heat came out.
I poured hot water into the bucket. Steam rising.
Fan still spinning in the hall.
I walked into the bedroom.
Unhooked my bra.
Dropped it.
Lifted my nightie.
Panties down.
That cloth was damp.
Not from washing.
From me.
My own wetness.
I stepped into the bathroom.
Mirror fogged slightly.
I looked.
My body.
My skin.
The curve of my stomach. The weight of my breasts. The small hair near my hip.
Real.
Alive.
I took the mug.
Poured.
Hot water hit my shoulder.
Rolled down.
Neck to chest. Over nipple. Over stomach.
I leaned forward. Let it pour across my back.
One more mug.
Over ass.
Inside thighs.
I exhaled.
Rubbed soap slowly.
Arm. Armpit. Neck. Breast.
Other breast.
Soap on nipple. I rubbed once.
Felt it harden.
Didn’t stop.
Rubbed my hip. Side. Back.
Then thighs.
But didn’t go in between yet.
Let the heat build.
Water dripping from my chin.
Hair wet.
Eyes closed.
My breathing was quiet, but heavy.
I poured again. Over stomach. Let it flow down.
Over the line of hair between my legs.
That heat...
One more mug.
One more pour.
I bent slightly.
Let it hit the center.
That ache woke up again.
That slow burn.
Just as I reached for the last mug...
DING DONG.
Bell.
Loud.
I froze.
Water still running down.
Water still sliding down my leg.
Last mug still in my hand.
I turned my head, looked at the bathroom door.
Waited.
Silence.
Maybe wrong bell? Maybe neighbor?
I poured the last mug. Quick rinse. No touching. Just wash and finish.
Then—
DING DONG.
Again.
Sharp. Loud.
Faster this time.
I muttered under my breath.
“Oh what the hell now...”
I stepped out, dripping wet.
My hair was sticking to my back. Water running into my ass crack. My thighs were wet and my nipples were poking out hard from the cold water.
I grabbed the same old nightie from the hook.
Pulled it over.
The cloth stuck immediately.
Shit.
Soaked body + thin cloth = full view show.
My nipples were pressing through. The curve of my stomach. Even the triangle between my legs was visible through the material.
Cloth stuck like second skin.
I checked the hall.
No time to dry properly.
I grabbed the small towel from the window bar. The one I use for face wipe.
Pressed it over my chest.
Held it tight with one hand.
DING DONG.
Third time.
I rushed to the door.
Barefoot.
One hand holding towel over my breasts. The other turned the latch.
I didn’t open it wide.
Just pulled it slightly.
Pushed my head out.
Hair still wet. Drops falling from chin.
Eyes still sharp from the bath.
And there he was.
Security.
Same man.
Same shirt.
Same guilty face.
Holding a folded paper in his hand.
His eyes dropped the second I opened the door.
He saw.
Even though I was covered with the towel, he saw the wet nightie underneath. The shape of everything.
He looked up fast.
But too late.
His eyes had already taken the tour.
I didn’t say anything yet.
He held out the paper like a scared collegeboy.
“Ma’am... electric bill came...”
His hand was holding the bill.
But his eyes?
That one quick drop said everything.
He didn’t come to stare. But he stared.
I had opened the door just enough to lean my head out.
Hair dripping. Chin wet.
Towel pressed across my chest.
Old cotton nightie soaked and clinging to every curve.
No way to hide anything.
And he was standing there like someone pressed pause on his brain.
“Ma’am… electric bill,” he said.
Voice soft. Shaky.
I didn’t touch the paper.
I didn’t move.
I just looked at him.
Hard.
“You can't wait two minutes, ah?”
He blinked. “Ma’am?”
“You rang the bell thrice, no? Can’t stand still for one damn minute?”
“I… I didn’t know anyone was inside, ma’am.”
“Even if no one’s there, will door open by magic? You’ll press till someone falls down?”
“I just thought…”
“You didn’t think anything. That’s your problem.”
He tried to look away.
But I saw that moment—his eyes catching the spot where the towel didn’t fully cover.
The wet patch between my breasts. A hint of skin showing.
His throat moved.
Swallowed.
I leaned just slightly toward him.
“You saw what you weren’t supposed to.”
“No ma’am… I didn’t mean—”
“You never mean. But still your eyes go full speed.”
“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t realise you were bathing.”
“You don’t need to realise. You just need to stop pressing the bell like a madman.”
He looked at the floor.
Didn’t speak.
“I opened because I thought it’s important. But here you are. Standing. Eyes rolling.”
“No ma’am. It was not like that. I just saw you by mistake.”
“Hah.”
I smiled.
Dry one.
“Your eyes always make mistakes when a woman’s towel slips half an inch?”
“No ma’am, please…”
I took the bill from his hand.
Slow.
Our fingers didn’t touch. But close.
“Don’t worry. You got what you didn’t ask for.”
“I really wasn’t trying to—”
“But you looked.”
He nodded. Quiet.
“Not the first time either, is it?”
“No, ma’am. I mean… yes ma’am. I won’t look again.”
“You think cloth hides everything when it’s wet?”
“No ma’am.”
“Then next time… press once. Wait. Or better, leave the bill near the grill and walk.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Before your eyes earn you a slap one day.”
He didn’t argue.
Just stepped back.
Turned around.
Walked slow.
Quiet.
Like he wanted to disappear.
I shut the door.
Calm.
Didn’t slam.
Just clicked it closed and stood there.
Towel slipping now.
One edge fell to the side.
I caught it lazily.
But inside?
I was smiling.
Not because he saw.
But because I let him know that I saw him seeing.
That power. That little shame in his eyes. That heat.
All mine.
I walked to the bedroom.
Dropped the towel.
Nightie was clinging too much now.
Pulled it off. Let it fall to the floor with a wet slap.
Stood there.
Naked.
Skin wet. Fresh.
Body awake.
I wiped down slow.
Neck.
Arms.
Under each breast.
Between my thighs.
One wipe across the back. Soft pressure on the spine.
Then powder.
Dabbed on collarbone. Under boobs. Stomach.
Opened the blouse drawer.
Picked a rust red one.
Hooked it at the back.
Tight fit. No bra.
Let the breasts sit free.
Then a soft cotton saree.
Light cream.
Tied it low.
Hip knot snug.
Pleats pressed deep.
Tucked in proper.
Pallu over shoulder.
Didn’t pin it.
Let it drop.
Hair still wet.
I dragged fingers through it.
Pulled it to one side.
Looked in the mirror.
Didn’t pose.
Just checked.
Blouse sitting perfect.
Waist clean.
Eyes sharp.
Smile?
Small.
Just enough.
—
The sun was boiling even at 11.
Floor tiles hot.
Fan on full inside the house, but my throat still felt like burning.
Summer had come like a slap this year.
I opened the fridge—no curd.
Only one half tomato, some old podi, and a stale lime.
I tied the pallu proper, adjusted the hip tuck, and stepped out.
Plain saree. Thin cotton.
No innerwear.
My body had just started sweating again.
Felt the blouse sticking to the side of my chest as I walked down.
Steps were hot. I took each one slow.
Down the corridor, I could already see the security sitting in his usual chair.
But this time?
His head was fully down.
Like he was examining the floor tile for cracks.
I passed him.
Didn’t say a word.
His eyes didn’t rise.
Not even a glance.
Shame still hanging on his neck like ID card.
Good.
I didn’t look back.
Walked straight to the shop.
Got one packet of curd. Thick type.
Held it under my arm like old aunty style.
Started walking back.
The curd packet was cold under my arm.
Sweat dripping from the back of my neck into the blouse.
The cotton saree stuck between my thighs as I walked back. Fan wasn’t going to fix this kind of heat.
Security was still in his corner chair, same position.
Elbows on knees. Head down. Trying to act invisible.
I slowed down when I reached the gate.
He didn’t lift his face.
Just kept scribbling something on the edge of a newspaper. Like he was writing Ramayanam in rough.
I stood two steps away.
Let my slipper slap the cement twice.
He looked up.
Fast.
Then down again.
Too late.
“Ey,” I said. Voice low but sharp.
No response.
“Look at me.”
He slowly lifted his eyes.
Not fully. Just a scared glance.
“Why are you acting like a collegeboy after PT period?”
“No ma’am.”
“No ma’am what?”
“I... I was just doing duty.”
“Your duty includes pressing bell twice for wet shows?”
He blinked. His mouth opened, then closed.
“Ma’am... I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean but you saw.”
He nodded like a thief caught with coin in hand.
“You saw too much this morning, right?”
“No ma’am, I just came for the bill…”
“You came for the bill, but left with full cinema. Interval, climax, everything.”
He stayed quiet.
I smiled.
“You want me to wash and come out again?”
“No ma’am, sorry. I really didn’t—”
“Didn’t stare?”
He stayed quiet.
I tilted my head, curd packet still under one arm, the other hand resting on my hip.
“Be honest. What did you see?”
He looked scared. “I... I saw by mistake... towel was... and nightie...”
“Oh, now you’re describing it?”
“No ma’am! Not like that—”
“Then what? My towel opened itself and invited you in?”
“No ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“Hmmm.”
I took one step closer.
His body moved back like he was expecting a slap.
“You know what you saw?”
He shook his head slowly.
I leaned a little.
“That wet line between my breasts? The nipple poking through the cloth? That hip curve where my nightie stuck? You saw all that.”
He shut his eyes for one second.
As if the images came back.
Good.
“That’s not your eyes’ fault. It’s your hunger.”
“No ma’am... I’m a married man—”
“So? Married men don’t look?”
“No, ma’am. I mean... I respect you.”
I laughed.
“Respect ah? You were ready to swallow me whole with your eyes.”
“No ma’am...”
“You pressed the bell twice like you wanted a second round.”
“I didn’t know you were bathing.”
“You could’ve waited.”
“I’ll never do it again.”
“You won’t get another chance.”
He stayed silent.
I adjusted my pallu once.
His eyes moved slightly. Then fixed back on the ground.
“You’re not lucky, you know that?”
He looked up, unsure.
“Men like you get one second of heaven, then carry it in your pants for a week.”
“I didn’t... I won’t... I mean... sorry ma’am.”
“You better be.”
I stepped back.
“Now go drink some buttermilk. Might cool your thoughts.”
He nodded.
Didn’t even say “yes ma’am” this time.
I turned around.
Started walking toward the building.
Back wet. Pallu clinging to my ass.
I didn’t fix it.
Let it stay.
Felt his eyes on me.
But he didn’t dare look up again.
Good.
Pressed the lift button.
Waited.
—
My hand was on the grill, but my eyes were on him.
That man.
The one sitting at the gate like a statue with cheap sunglasses and half-buttoned shirt.
Security.
Middle-aged. Balding slightly. One slipper torn at the side. Radio always hanging from his neck but never working.
And eyes?
Always busy.
Every time I stepped out, every single time, his eyes had some job. Sometimes on my feet. Sometimes chest. Sometimes backside when I walk away.
I stood there for two seconds.
He was pretending to look away. Acting like he was watching the kids in the flat opposite.
But I saw.
I saw him seeing.
So I walked toward him.
Slow steps. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just real.
He noticed.
Sat straighter. Legs uncrossed. Hand on his knee.
Still didn’t look directly.
I stopped two feet from him.
He looked up.
Tried to act confused.
I didn’t waste time.
“You’ll never stop, right?”
He blinked.
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I—”
“You look every single day. Like you’re paid to stare.”
“No, ma’am... I was just—”
“What? Looking at the wall? Or my bra strap?”
His face went red.
He looked down.
I folded my arms across my chest. Not to hide anything. Just to show I wasn’t scared.
“You’ve been doing it for days. I’ve seen it. You think women don’t notice when your eyes crawl over them?”
“No ma’am, I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean to get caught. That’s all.”
He scratched his chin. “Sorry ma’am... I just—”
“You just what?”
“I was not staring intentionally…”
I laughed. Just once.
That bitter one.
“Men like you always say the same thing. Not intentional. Not your fault. Not staring. But your eyes will peel off a woman’s clothes in three seconds.”
“I didn’t... I just saw—”
“You saw what?”
His mouth stayed open.
I looked him up and down once.
“Do you think I don’t know when someone’s eyes are sliding across my chest?”
Silence.
“Next time I catch you, I’ll complain.”
“No ma’am, please. Don’t. I have family... I won’t do again.”
I nodded once.
“Don’t do it again. Keep your eyes where they belong. On the gate. Not on my blouse.”
“Yes ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”
I turned.
Walked away.
But inside?
That heat didn’t die.
Not from anger.
But from something else.
Something dirtier.
Because the truth?
I liked it.
I hated him for it. But I liked the way he looked.
Not because I liked him.
But because it meant I was still wanted.
Still seen.
Even in a sweaty nightie. Even with tired eyes. Even with milk stain on my shoulder.
That look told me—my body still speaks.
I entered the house.
Closed the door.
Leaning against the wooden frame, I let out a slow breath.
My hand touched the curve of my waist. Lightly.
My own skin felt warm.
I moved inside.
Kitchen was clean.
Plates done. Lunch packed. House quiet.
No Kartik. No Arjun. No kids.
Just me.
And this silence.
I washed my hands. Wiped the counter. Opened the bathroom door.
Heat came out.
I poured hot water into the bucket. Steam rising.
Fan still spinning in the hall.
I walked into the bedroom.
Unhooked my bra.
Dropped it.
Lifted my nightie.
Panties down.
That cloth was damp.
Not from washing.
From me.
My own wetness.
I stepped into the bathroom.
Mirror fogged slightly.
I looked.
My body.
My skin.
The curve of my stomach. The weight of my breasts. The small hair near my hip.
Real.
Alive.
I took the mug.
Poured.
Hot water hit my shoulder.
Rolled down.
Neck to chest. Over nipple. Over stomach.
I leaned forward. Let it pour across my back.
One more mug.
Over ass.
Inside thighs.
I exhaled.
Rubbed soap slowly.
Arm. Armpit. Neck. Breast.
Other breast.
Soap on nipple. I rubbed once.
Felt it harden.
Didn’t stop.
Rubbed my hip. Side. Back.
Then thighs.
But didn’t go in between yet.
Let the heat build.
Water dripping from my chin.
Hair wet.
Eyes closed.
My breathing was quiet, but heavy.
I poured again. Over stomach. Let it flow down.
Over the line of hair between my legs.
That heat...
One more mug.
One more pour.
I bent slightly.
Let it hit the center.
That ache woke up again.
That slow burn.
Just as I reached for the last mug...
DING DONG.
Bell.
Loud.
I froze.
Water still running down.
Water still sliding down my leg.
Last mug still in my hand.
I turned my head, looked at the bathroom door.
Waited.
Silence.
Maybe wrong bell? Maybe neighbor?
I poured the last mug. Quick rinse. No touching. Just wash and finish.
Then—
DING DONG.
Again.
Sharp. Loud.
Faster this time.
I muttered under my breath.
“Oh what the hell now...”
I stepped out, dripping wet.
My hair was sticking to my back. Water running into my ass crack. My thighs were wet and my nipples were poking out hard from the cold water.
I grabbed the same old nightie from the hook.
Pulled it over.
The cloth stuck immediately.
Shit.
Soaked body + thin cloth = full view show.
My nipples were pressing through. The curve of my stomach. Even the triangle between my legs was visible through the material.
Cloth stuck like second skin.
I checked the hall.
No time to dry properly.
I grabbed the small towel from the window bar. The one I use for face wipe.
Pressed it over my chest.
Held it tight with one hand.
DING DONG.
Third time.
I rushed to the door.
Barefoot.
One hand holding towel over my breasts. The other turned the latch.
I didn’t open it wide.
Just pulled it slightly.
Pushed my head out.
Hair still wet. Drops falling from chin.
Eyes still sharp from the bath.
And there he was.
Security.
Same man.
Same shirt.
Same guilty face.
Holding a folded paper in his hand.
His eyes dropped the second I opened the door.
He saw.
Even though I was covered with the towel, he saw the wet nightie underneath. The shape of everything.
He looked up fast.
But too late.
His eyes had already taken the tour.
I didn’t say anything yet.
He held out the paper like a scared collegeboy.
“Ma’am... electric bill came...”
His hand was holding the bill.
But his eyes?
That one quick drop said everything.
He didn’t come to stare. But he stared.
I had opened the door just enough to lean my head out.
Hair dripping. Chin wet.
Towel pressed across my chest.
Old cotton nightie soaked and clinging to every curve.
No way to hide anything.
And he was standing there like someone pressed pause on his brain.
“Ma’am… electric bill,” he said.
Voice soft. Shaky.
I didn’t touch the paper.
I didn’t move.
I just looked at him.
Hard.
“You can't wait two minutes, ah?”
He blinked. “Ma’am?”
“You rang the bell thrice, no? Can’t stand still for one damn minute?”
“I… I didn’t know anyone was inside, ma’am.”
“Even if no one’s there, will door open by magic? You’ll press till someone falls down?”
“I just thought…”
“You didn’t think anything. That’s your problem.”
He tried to look away.
But I saw that moment—his eyes catching the spot where the towel didn’t fully cover.
The wet patch between my breasts. A hint of skin showing.
His throat moved.
Swallowed.
I leaned just slightly toward him.
“You saw what you weren’t supposed to.”
“No ma’am… I didn’t mean—”
“You never mean. But still your eyes go full speed.”
“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t realise you were bathing.”
“You don’t need to realise. You just need to stop pressing the bell like a madman.”
He looked at the floor.
Didn’t speak.
“I opened because I thought it’s important. But here you are. Standing. Eyes rolling.”
“No ma’am. It was not like that. I just saw you by mistake.”
“Hah.”
I smiled.
Dry one.
“Your eyes always make mistakes when a woman’s towel slips half an inch?”
“No ma’am, please…”
I took the bill from his hand.
Slow.
Our fingers didn’t touch. But close.
“Don’t worry. You got what you didn’t ask for.”
“I really wasn’t trying to—”
“But you looked.”
He nodded. Quiet.
“Not the first time either, is it?”
“No, ma’am. I mean… yes ma’am. I won’t look again.”
“You think cloth hides everything when it’s wet?”
“No ma’am.”
“Then next time… press once. Wait. Or better, leave the bill near the grill and walk.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Before your eyes earn you a slap one day.”
He didn’t argue.
Just stepped back.
Turned around.
Walked slow.
Quiet.
Like he wanted to disappear.
I shut the door.
Calm.
Didn’t slam.
Just clicked it closed and stood there.
Towel slipping now.
One edge fell to the side.
I caught it lazily.
But inside?
I was smiling.
Not because he saw.
But because I let him know that I saw him seeing.
That power. That little shame in his eyes. That heat.
All mine.
I walked to the bedroom.
Dropped the towel.
Nightie was clinging too much now.
Pulled it off. Let it fall to the floor with a wet slap.
Stood there.
Naked.
Skin wet. Fresh.
Body awake.
I wiped down slow.
Neck.
Arms.
Under each breast.
Between my thighs.
One wipe across the back. Soft pressure on the spine.
Then powder.
Dabbed on collarbone. Under boobs. Stomach.
Opened the blouse drawer.
Picked a rust red one.
Hooked it at the back.
Tight fit. No bra.
Let the breasts sit free.
Then a soft cotton saree.
Light cream.
Tied it low.
Hip knot snug.
Pleats pressed deep.
Tucked in proper.
Pallu over shoulder.
Didn’t pin it.
Let it drop.
Hair still wet.
I dragged fingers through it.
Pulled it to one side.
Looked in the mirror.
Didn’t pose.
Just checked.
Blouse sitting perfect.
Waist clean.
Eyes sharp.
Smile?
Small.
Just enough.
—
The sun was boiling even at 11.
Floor tiles hot.
Fan on full inside the house, but my throat still felt like burning.
Summer had come like a slap this year.
I opened the fridge—no curd.
Only one half tomato, some old podi, and a stale lime.
I tied the pallu proper, adjusted the hip tuck, and stepped out.
Plain saree. Thin cotton.
No innerwear.
My body had just started sweating again.
Felt the blouse sticking to the side of my chest as I walked down.
Steps were hot. I took each one slow.
Down the corridor, I could already see the security sitting in his usual chair.
But this time?
His head was fully down.
Like he was examining the floor tile for cracks.
I passed him.
Didn’t say a word.
His eyes didn’t rise.
Not even a glance.
Shame still hanging on his neck like ID card.
Good.
I didn’t look back.
Walked straight to the shop.
Got one packet of curd. Thick type.
Held it under my arm like old aunty style.
Started walking back.
The curd packet was cold under my arm.
Sweat dripping from the back of my neck into the blouse.
The cotton saree stuck between my thighs as I walked back. Fan wasn’t going to fix this kind of heat.
Security was still in his corner chair, same position.
Elbows on knees. Head down. Trying to act invisible.
I slowed down when I reached the gate.
He didn’t lift his face.
Just kept scribbling something on the edge of a newspaper. Like he was writing Ramayanam in rough.
I stood two steps away.
Let my slipper slap the cement twice.
He looked up.
Fast.
Then down again.
Too late.
“Ey,” I said. Voice low but sharp.
No response.
“Look at me.”
He slowly lifted his eyes.
Not fully. Just a scared glance.
“Why are you acting like a collegeboy after PT period?”
“No ma’am.”
“No ma’am what?”
“I... I was just doing duty.”
“Your duty includes pressing bell twice for wet shows?”
He blinked. His mouth opened, then closed.
“Ma’am... I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean but you saw.”
He nodded like a thief caught with coin in hand.
“You saw too much this morning, right?”
“No ma’am, I just came for the bill…”
“You came for the bill, but left with full cinema. Interval, climax, everything.”
He stayed quiet.
I smiled.
“You want me to wash and come out again?”
“No ma’am, sorry. I really didn’t—”
“Didn’t stare?”
He stayed quiet.
I tilted my head, curd packet still under one arm, the other hand resting on my hip.
“Be honest. What did you see?”
He looked scared. “I... I saw by mistake... towel was... and nightie...”
“Oh, now you’re describing it?”
“No ma’am! Not like that—”
“Then what? My towel opened itself and invited you in?”
“No ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“Hmmm.”
I took one step closer.
His body moved back like he was expecting a slap.
“You know what you saw?”
He shook his head slowly.
I leaned a little.
“That wet line between my breasts? The nipple poking through the cloth? That hip curve where my nightie stuck? You saw all that.”
He shut his eyes for one second.
As if the images came back.
Good.
“That’s not your eyes’ fault. It’s your hunger.”
“No ma’am... I’m a married man—”
“So? Married men don’t look?”
“No, ma’am. I mean... I respect you.”
I laughed.
“Respect ah? You were ready to swallow me whole with your eyes.”
“No ma’am...”
“You pressed the bell twice like you wanted a second round.”
“I didn’t know you were bathing.”
“You could’ve waited.”
“I’ll never do it again.”
“You won’t get another chance.”
He stayed silent.
I adjusted my pallu once.
His eyes moved slightly. Then fixed back on the ground.
“You’re not lucky, you know that?”
He looked up, unsure.
“Men like you get one second of heaven, then carry it in your pants for a week.”
“I didn’t... I won’t... I mean... sorry ma’am.”
“You better be.”
I stepped back.
“Now go drink some buttermilk. Might cool your thoughts.”
He nodded.
Didn’t even say “yes ma’am” this time.
I turned around.
Started walking toward the building.
Back wet. Pallu clinging to my ass.
I didn’t fix it.
Let it stay.
Felt his eyes on me.
But he didn’t dare look up again.
Good.
Pressed the lift button.
Waited.
—
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