The first message popped up just after eleven. My phone vibrated against the coffee table while I was finishing a lukewarm beer on the couch.
“You still up? Light’s on in your living room.”
I didn’t recognize the number. I stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back.
“Who is this?”
Three dots danced, then: “Apartment 4B. Opposite side of the courtyard. Saw you watching me last night.”
My stomach tightened. The building across the narrow courtyard in this old Brooklyn block had windows that faced mine almost perfectly. I’d noticed her a week ago when she left the blinds half-open while changing after a late shift. Last night the gap had been wider. I hadn’t looked away.
“Sorry,” I replied, thumbs clumsy. “Won’t happen again.”
“Didn’t say I minded.”
The next text came before I could answer. “Name’s Lena. You?”
“Marcus.”
“Marcus who works from home and keeps odd hours. I’ve seen you at your desk at 2 a.m.”
I stood up and walked to the window. Her apartment was dark except for the faint blue glow of a phone screen. I could just make out the outline of her body sitting on the wide windowsill, knees drawn up, wearing what looked like an oversized t-shirt.
Another buzz. “Your turn to show me something.”
I hesitated, pulse loud in my ears. Then I switched on the desk lamp behind me so the light spilled across my chest. I was shirtless, fresh from the shower, hair still damp. I typed: “Fair’s fair.”
Her reply was a single emoji: the little devil face. Then the lights in her apartment came on, soft and low. She stood up slowly, stretching like a cat. The t-shirt rode high on her thighs. Dark hair tumbled over one shoulder. She was barefoot, legs long and smooth. She didn’t close the blinds.
We traded messages like that for nearly an hour, each text a small dare. She turned around, bent slightly to adjust the lamp, letting the hem of the shirt lift. I mirrored her, stepping closer to the glass so she could see the line of my hips above low-slung sweatpants. The city hummed below us—sirens on Flatbush, distant bass from a passing car—but up here it felt like the courtyard had narrowed to a private stage.
“You hard yet?” she asked at one point.
I didn’t answer with words. I simply hooked a thumb in the waistband and tugged the fabric down an inch. Her response was immediate: a photo, sent without caption. The curve of her ass barely covered by black lace, taken from behind while she looked back over her shoulder at the phone.
My mouth went dry. I typed: “Come closer to the window.”
She did. Pressed her forehead to the glass on the fourth floor. I mirrored her on the third. We were maybe thirty feet apart. I could see the faint fog of her breath on the pane. Her free hand slid down her stomach, under the shirt. My own hand followed the path she took, mirroring without being asked.
The messages slowed as our hands moved faster. Short commands. “Slower.” “Show me your face.” “Touch lower.” Her lips parted when she came the first time; I watched the tremor run through her shoulders. I lasted another minute before I had to brace one hand on the window frame, forehead against cool glass, biting back any sound that might carry across the quiet courtyard.
Afterward we both slid down to sit on our respective floors, backs to the wall, phones still in hand. The silence felt heavier than the teasing had.
“Again tomorrow?” she finally texted.
“Same time.”
“Leave your blinds half-open all day. I want to think about you while I’m at work.”
I agreed. The next evening I kept every promise. I worked at my desk in nothing but boxer briefs, knowing she could see if she wanted. She sent me pictures from her subway commute: the hem of her dress riding up on the plastic seat, a flash of thigh in the reflection of the train window. By the time she got home I was already aching.
This time she didn’t bother with the lights at first. She stood in the dark and stripped slowly while I kept my lamp on like a spotlight. Each piece of clothing dropped with deliberate pauses so I could appreciate the reveal. When she was naked she pressed her breasts to the glass, nipples tight from the cool surface. I stroked myself openly now, no more games of suggestion.
She typed one-handed: “I want to hear you.”
I opened my window a crack. The night air was warm for early October. Across the way she did the same. The faint sounds of her breathing reached me, small gasps that grew sharper as her fingers worked between her legs. I matched her rhythm, the wet sound of my hand unmistakable if anyone had been listening from below. No one was. Just us and the sleeping building.
When she came she didn’t try to stay quiet. A low moan floated across the courtyard, raw and feminine. It pushed me over. I spilled across my fist with a groan that echoed off the brick walls. For a moment the only sound was both of us catching our breath and the distant wail of an ambulance on Atlantic Avenue.
Later, after we’d cleaned up and returned to our windows, she sent one last message.
“My roommate leaves for Chicago on Friday. I’ll have the place to myself all weekend. The window stays open if you want more than pixels and glass between us.”
I looked across at her. She was smiling, chin resting on her knee, completely naked and utterly unashamed. I lifted my phone and typed my answer.
“I’ll bring the wine.”
She blew me a kiss, turned off her light, and left the blinds wide open.