My body leaves me behind as she gets up to go read in the balcony.
I watch her, gathering her knees up to her chest, letting her hair loose. I watch it cascade past her shoulders, covering just the right amount of her face. She runs her hands through it; every strand is perfect. She would hate to discover me here again, watching her as she goes about her morning. But I cannot help my compulsive need. This is all I’ve been taught to do.
I am sitting inside the room, hunched over on a chair, and the only sliver of sunlight that is allowed in stops short at my feet. But outside the morning is tinged golden. She squints at the sun, turns her face away from it, and in the breeze, her fluttering hair looks like it’s been sprayed with sunlight. It is cool. I can’t see her cheeks clearly, but I’d like to imagine they’re flushed. She is staring into space, I wonder what she’s thinking about.
She looks beyond the balcony railing, at the beautiful day. Even with her head turned away from me, I can imagine her eyes are filled with wonder as she observes the little things around her. I know she likes to do that. I know her too well; she hates that I do. She tries to take an interest in how the barber downstairs is conducting his business, or the yellow flowers that seem to fall capriciously off their trees. She tries to make up mysteries around that far-off temple. But she never succeeds, not completely. Eventually, she gets distracted, perhaps because she starts to feel my gaze on her body. Nevertheless, I take advantage of her temporary preoccupation, and move closer. I can see little strands of her hair straying in an otherwise quiet breeze, like flames under the glare of the sun. Everything about her is perfect. Then something goes amiss, and she flops back into her chair, sighing heavily. Does she know I’m watching? Is she upset? I try to retreat into the shadows, to conceal myself. But I can’t leave. I can’t stop looking at her. She probably despises me for it, she’s probably afraid of me. I wish I could take a photo of her.
She shakes her head as if to clear it, and opens her book. A collection of Sartre’s plays for a French class. She’s on No Exit. Her hair falls by the sides of her face as she looks down to read. She reads! It only makes her more attractive. I wish I could, too. But how can anybody read, how can anybody do anything but look at her? The neighbour boy enters the balcony next door. I bet he has stopped in his tracks and is looking at her, too. I bet he is so taken in by her—this enchanting beauty, this perfect woman—that he has nearly forgotten why he came out in the first place. I bet she’s too perfect to even notice him.
I wish I could take a photo of her.
She stretches, her arms reaching above and behind her, one of her hands still holding onto the book. How does she know to move just like that, to arrange herself so that in every angle she is fit to be looked at? Is she aware that I’m watching? She can’t be—I am hiding, she doesn’t know I’m here. Besides, she has more important things to think about. That’s probably what she’s doing now. That’s what she’s sitting in the balcony for.
Suddenly, she looks at me, her face hateful and exasperated. Of course, she sees nothing. I’m only an invisible part of her. She shakes her head again, and returns to No Exit with renewed determination. Oh god. I am being pulled towards her. She seems to have control over me. She has seen me! I try to fight it, but there’s not much I can do. I wasn’t prepared for her resistance. I’m supposed to be the one looking at her, I didn’t think she would see me. She is forceful and angry. She’s reabsorbing me. I need to make this stop. I need to look at her!
It’s too late. I am back in her now. I see through her eyes, Sartre’s words in the book: “Hell is other people”.
She compels me to think about this. I notice the neighbour boy is gone from his balcony. He went long ago. He had only come out to grab his towel, and had done so and disappeared in less than three seconds. It is only me and her—it has always been—and we are the same. If hell is other people, then we are free from it. But she doesn’t feel free. She asks me why, and I know it is because of me. I am her hell, grown over decades from the gaze of all the others. And I can’t help it anymore. She hates me, but I only want to look at her. How does her hair look in the stronger breeze, are her cheeks flushed, is the fall of her t-shirt flattering? Exasperated, she lets go of her thought on freedom to admonish me. I seize the opportunity to leave her, and make myself comfortable in the armchair once again. So I can look at her again, entrapped in my gaze.
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