Watcher peered through the slats of the blinds for years, undeterred by the changing winds and weather.
Subject, the figure that never had a name, she lived there. Subject never noticed the gaps in the blinds, or how the tree moved, or the soft shutter click just outside the window during the spring and summer months. Subject combed her black hair at no one, but Watcher took it in. Watcher captured her Subject with skill; in her mind, on camera, with pen and pencil.
Nearly every day she made the pilgrimage. Watcher would make Subject hers, sometimes for hours, and then take her home. She would stare at the pictures under the red light, the sketches in the light from the street, the memories in her dreams.
The night pictures were her favorite. Watcher would try to move her body the same way as the pictures. She would flex and release, and as time went on, she waxed and waned with the tides of Subject’s body.
All the bending and aching in her heart and legs took a toll on Watcher. One day she couldn’t get into the tree, couldn’t focus on what was happening between the slats.
Watcher’s life became a series of “couldn’t,” and then Subject wasn’t at the window any longer. Her blackgray hair wasn’t brushed again.
And, eventually, Watcher looked and saw nothing at all.