I don’t have much of a view from my desk. Just the face of another building, the kind with wide balconies that jut out from expensive-looking walls of floor-to-ceiling glass. It’s the kind of place that invites viewing, but I’d never seen anything worth looking at. Until this morning.

She stepped out onto one of the balconies with a watering can in hand and her robe tied at the waist, the knot loose enough that it slipped open when she bent toward the planter boxes along the railing. I didn’t recognize her. Maybe she’d been there all along, and I just hadn’t been paying the right kind of attention.

She went from plant to plant, checking each pot, pressing the soil with her thumb, and turning each container so the leaves would catch more sun. Her robe hung loose, slipping enough to reveal a thin off-white bra strap, the waistband of mismatched red panties, and skin the warm tone of summer. She didn’t seem self-conscious, just tended to her plants, unaware anyone might be watching.

She paused and tilted her head just a little, as if someone inside had called her. She turned toward the glass door, set the can down, tightened her robe, and stepped into the apartment.

I waited, hoping she’d come back. Something about the way she moved made even the ordinary worth watching. I hesitated, thinking about whether I should, then pushed back from the desk. At the front door, I dug through a closet looking for something I’d almost forgotten I owned. An old pair of binoculars, something left over from a short-lived attempt at stargazing. They felt heavier than I remembered. Back at the window, I raised them and adjusted the focus until her apartment slid into view, close enough to feel like I’d stepped inside.

She was near the front door now, with a man standing just inside. He looked older. Not old, but older than her. He was a typical-looking businessman, wearing a suit and tie, a travel mug in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He said something I couldn’t make out. She laughed, stepped closer, and tugged the knot of his tie to straighten it, then smoothed the collar of his shirt like this was part of their morning ritual. She reached up, kissed him lightly, and he left for what I imagined was an all-glass office tower not much different from his apartment building.

I lowered the binoculars but didn’t put them away. A minute later, she stepped out onto the balcony and leaned on the railing, elbow hooked over the edge, weight settled into one hip. She had a coffee in one hand, her phone in the other, thumb moving in short bursts. Now and then, she’d glance up at the sky or down the street below. The wicker chair behind her was angled toward the sun, empty.

She looked at her phone and smiled warmly, not the kind you make out of politeness. She laughed at something, then bit her lip and looked down at her phone again. The second smile was smaller, more internal, but the way her expression softened told me she felt it more deeply. She took a few deep breaths, then turned and went back inside.

I kept my focus on her apartment longer than I should have, hoping she’d reappear in one of the rooms I could see. Minutes passed with nothing but empty rooms, and I set the binoculars down.

More than half an hour went by before I saw any movement again. A small change in shadow behind one of the far windows caught my eye, and I instinctively reached for the binoculars. It took a second to find her, but there she was, wrapped in a white towel, walking slowly through what looked like the bedroom. Her hair was still damp, the ends already starting to curl.

She moved with the unhurried calm of someone alone, drying herself off in stages. Watching her in this private moment felt like crossing a line I shouldn’t, but that was quickly swallowed by a curiosity I couldn’t ignore. I didn’t stop. Instead, I zoomed in closer. She was beautiful. Not in the striking way someone on the street might be, but elegant in a classic way that reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. I found myself wondering if she might also be an actress or maybe a model.

She sat at a vanity near the corner of the room and started blow-drying her hair. I watched as it slowly took shape again, falling over her shoulders as she moved the dryer from one side to the other. After that, she applied makeup, carefully checking her reflection between strokes, adjusting until she seemed satisfied.

She stood and opened the wardrobe to get dressed. She took her time considering her options, pulling items from hangers, and eventually laid a dress out across the bed. As the towel slipped from her, I was struck all over again by her beauty. I’d guessed early thirties, but her body could have passed for someone younger.

She sat beside it and paused for a second, deciding whether to commit to it. Then she started dressing. First came the black stockings, drawn up her legs with slow, practiced pulls. Then a bra. She stood to step into her panties, but after smoothing them into place, she looked down and paused, then peeled them off.

She pulled the dress from the bed, stepped into it, and lifted the straps over her shoulders. It was light, something you’d wear to lunch on a terrace. It was the kind of thing you wear when you’re not trying too hard to be noticed but still want someone to look.

For a moment, I lost her. She moved out of frame, and I thought that might be it for the morning. But then she reappeared in the living room, standing by a shelf of records, and pulled one out. Even from here, I recognized the cover, Mezzanine from Massive Attack. She set it on the turntable, lowered the needle, and the room filled with music I knew but couldn’t hear.

She half lay on the couch, her legs stretched out on the cushions with one foot hanging off the side. Every few minutes, she checked her phone, looking like she was expecting a text or call.

I turned back to my screen. There was work to do. I still had some numbers to go through and emails that had been put off for too long. For a short while, I managed to forget she was there.

It wasn’t until about thirty minutes later that I caught movement again. She stood from the couch, walked to the record player, and flipped the vinyl. Just as she was lowering the needle again, her head snapped toward the door. Not startled, just alert. Someone was there.

I watched as her face broke into a smile. Not the kind she’d given the phone earlier. This one reached all the way to her eyes. She crossed the room and opened the door. A man stepped in.

He was younger than the man from earlier, closer to her age. He looked Mediterranean, Italian maybe. Tall, dark hair, and handsome in a way that suited her more naturally than the older man I assumed was her husband. They spoke briefly by the door. She stepped close to him and leaned in as if she were sharing a secret. He glanced toward the balcony, puzzled, but she touched his chin and drew his attention back to her. Whatever she said, it made him laugh. She nodded, still smiling. He looked at her, then at the floor, then back to her face when she said something I couldn’t make out.

But I could read his lips when he answered.

“Okay.”

With that, she kissed him. It started soft, but it didn’t stay that way. He pressed into her, pinning her against the wall. Their bodies came together in a way that suggested this wasn’t the first time. His hand slid into her hair. Hers moved up his back, holding him at the shoulders. They stayed by the door, either forgetting it was open or not caring.

They slowly moved further inside without breaking rhythm, their mouths still joined, hands already under each other’s clothes. He kicked the door shut behind them with his heel, never looking back. She laughed into the kiss, her arms winding around his neck as they backed through the living room, bumping into the edge of a table without seeming to notice.

I couldn’t see everything from this angle, but I kept the binoculars on them as they disappeared into the hallway that led toward the bedroom. For a few seconds, the apartment felt empty again, just the low glow of the record player still spinning and the faint movement of curtains in the half-open balcony door.

They reappeared in the bedroom. Her dress was gone. So was his shirt. Both were lost somewhere between the rooms. Something about them had changed, not just undressed, but different. Like more than clothes dropped away between them. The laughter and smiles gave way to an intensity that felt wrong to watch, but I didn’t look away.

She sat at the edge of the bed with her legs parted. There was no hesitation or shyness. She looked down at him as he knelt between her knees, the angle of her body told him exactly where to put his mouth. He didn’t rush. His hands rested on her knees, then slid up along her stockinged thighs, easing them wider before he buried his face between her legs. She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra. It slid down her arms and dropped to the floor.

I adjusted the focus of the binoculars, just enough. I wanted to see as much as I could without losing the softness of the room or the intimacy of it. The woman rested a hand on his head. Holding him there at first, then let it relax. Her eyes stayed open for a while, watching him with a quiet pleasure. Her mouth tightened briefly as his tongue worked between her thighs. Eventually, her eyes closed. Her head tilted back, braced by the arm behind her.

I could see her breathing deepen. Her hips shifted forward, subtle at first, then more insistently. Her thighs trembled as his hands gripped the backs of them to keep her in place. I saw it happen. Not just the orgasm, but the way it took her. A slow climb that suddenly hit her all at once, like his mouth found the exact spot she’d been aching to give up. Her lips parted. Her head dropped forward, then rolled to the side. There was a warmth in her face I hadn’t seen before. It was something deeper than just arousal. A connection she was feeling, with no trace of guilt or thought of her husband.

She slid down to the floor, her legs folding beneath her as he rose to his feet. Her hands went to his waist, undoing the belt and zipper like she’d been waiting for this all morning. Her mouth went straight to his cock. Her hand moved with her mouth in a rhythm that made his knees buckle slightly. Her lips and tongue worked him with absolute confidence. Whoever this woman was, she knew how to suck a dick. I could tell how precise she was. She knew exactly how to work him and how she wanted to look with his cock in her mouth.

The man said something to her. His lips moved slowly, like he was repeating himself, but she didn’t stop sucking. His eyes shot to the window. I thought he might have seen something, maybe sunlight reflecting off the lens of the binoculars. I lowered them, but when his head turned back to her, I slowly raised them again. He didn’t look back.

He reached under her arms and lifted her. Not just up, but clear off the floor. She let out what I imagined was a sharp sound in surprise as he tossed her playfully onto the bed. She landed with a soft bounce, her knees already starting to spread before he joined her. He stared at her for a moment, stroking his cock. Then he climbed into bed and positioned himself over her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading. He hovered there, letting the head of his cock press against her before pushing in, one slow, constant motion until he was all the way inside. Her head gave a series of small nods as each inch sank deeper.

Once he was inside, the pace changed. He started fucking her hard, with purpose. Her legs wrapped around his back and pulled him in tighter as her hips rose to meet each thrust. Their bodies moved together like it was something they’d done often, working toward perfection. There was a performance in it too. He was proving something with his cock, and her body was agreeing.

It was hard not to feel jealous and imagine myself in his place. To be the kind of man he was. I wanted to touch myself, but as wrong as it felt to watch, the thought of joining in, even alone, somehow felt worse.

He rolled over, putting her on top. Her knees were planted wide on either side of his hips, taking him deep. The pace picked up. She rode him like she was chasing something, and he met her with upward thrusts that kept the tension high, almost frantic. Her hair stuck to the sides of her face, and his hands gripped her waist hard enough that I could see the pressure of his fingers.

She slowed, pressing one hand to his chest, the other between her legs, catching her breath. Then she slid off him, holding his cock in her hand as she crawled forward. She moved across the bed with an easy sway, settling on all fours, her back bowed, with her head tilted slightly to the side. She was facing the window now. Facing me.

He moved behind her and entered again, this time with both hands anchoring her, one wrapped around her hip, the other buried in her hair, pulling her head back just enough that I could see her face. Her lips were open, shaping silent moans. Her eyes couldn’t seem to focus on anything. Her entire expression was lost, carried away by what he was doing to her. The elegance I’d seen earlier was gone. Now she was a woman getting fucked in a way that was purely animal.

He drove into her with deep, heavy thrusts, the force rocking her body as she let him take whatever he needed from her, and took everything she wanted from him. She was screaming, I could see that much, and I imagined what it might sound like. Her face contorted in pleasure, her arms barely holding her up. Then it came on fast, faster than the first time. Her mouth was stuck open, her shoulders tensed, and I watched as her second orgasm ripped through her.

She stayed there afterward, body sagging, her head hanging forward now, her arms no longer bracing quite as strongly. He didn’t slow down. He kept pounding away. Her head bounced each time his body rammed into hers. She took it all, letting him use her body, taking every hard thrust he gave her.

When he pulled out, I saw his body jolt forward, then again. Seconds later, his cum streaked hot across her back. She looked over her shoulder at him, smiled, then collapsed into the mattress as her muscles gave out.

He leaned close to her ear and said something. She didn’t respond. Just closed her eyes and let it land wherever it landed.

I set the binoculars down and stood without thinking. My legs carried me across the room and back again, in a loop I hadn’t chosen. As their wave of emotions faded, a different one took hold in me. It hit like a blow, tightening my chest and weakening my stomach at once. I’d had flashes where it felt wrong to watch, but never wrong enough to stop. What unsettled me most was the inevitability of it, like the choice had never been mine, but something I was compelled to do.

In the kitchen, I filled the kettle and dropped a teabag into a mug. The ritual was something I needed, a way to make the day feel ordinary again. When the water boiled, I poured it, let it steep, pressed the bag with a spoon, then set it aside. The smell of chamomile calmed my nerves, the way it always did. I carried the mug back to my desk and stared at the spreadsheet I’d left open, trying to block out what kind of man I’d just become.

But my eyes kept sliding toward the window. Then to the binoculars. Then back to my laptop. It was a cycle I couldn’t break. I clicked through a few tabs, typed out a couple of replies, and even scheduled a meeting I didn’t need just to feel like I was doing something. Still, the binoculars stayed there on the desk, just to the right of the keyboard. I didn’t touch them, but didn’t move them either.

An hour or two later, I stepped outside. My balcony was narrow and not particularly clean, just a spot to get some air and have a smoke without leaving the building. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing. It tasted stale. I hadn’t had one in weeks, but I’d kept the pack around for days like this.

I thought about what I’d seen. Not just the sex, everything. The sly way she smiled, like she’d heard his lines before. The way he touched her. The way she went limp under his hands. And the way I’d watched every second, like looking away wasn’t an option. I told myself windows were for looking through, that open curtains were an invitation, but the excuse felt thin. Just lies I told myself but didn’t believe.

Halfway through the cigarette, she came back out.

She stepped onto her balcony like the last few hours hadn’t happened. She’d changed clothes, now wearing a T-shirt and an old pair of Levi’s cut into shorts with her hair tied up in a bun. Casual, not like someone who’d just been thoroughly fucked by a man who wasn’t her husband.

She leaned on the railing just like she had earlier, same elbow hooked, same tilt in her hip, only this time she didn’t check her phone. She looked across the way between us. I couldn’t tell if it was at me, or if I was imagining it because I wanted it to be true.

The wind caught a loose strand of her hair, letting it fall against her cheek. She stayed there long enough for my cigarette to burn down to the filter. I couldn't move, caught between wanting to look and wanting to look away. The city buzzed faintly below, distant and indifferent to everything I’d just seen and become.

When she turned to go inside, she paused in the doorway long enough to feel like the moment belonged to me. For a second, I thought she might look back, but instead she stepped inside and was gone. The glass doors closed, the wicker chair still angled toward the sun just as it had that morning.