He used to love to watch her – dressing or undressing, it did not matter which for there was wonder in both, and mystery, too. All those fiddly little fastenings, and the way Cecily unbuttoned her blouse from the bottom up, and how she removed her underwear before she removed her dress; or putting her pants on last, even after applying her make-up and brushing her hair.
And there were the little tricks she performed to make herself look better. Cecily’d pinch her cheeks pink just before walking out, just lightly, and not really pinching so much as caressing roughly – the same way he touched her breasts when they were in bed, he thought. And she licked her lips, too, so they looked wet, or she drained her wine and the effect was the same. And she pouted in front of the mirror, making one half of a kiss with her lips; or she dipped her head, deep enough so her hair fell full across her face, and then she flicked her head back and it gave extra fullness to her hair somehow.
He used to love watching Cecily and the small shift from who she was dressed to who she was undressed; and the shift back again.
Cecily saw all that and she made something of a show of it for him, like it was a game and the rules were all unknown. And small things she lingered over, like the fitting of her earrings after they’d finished, and she’d turn her head so he could see everything more clearly, her neck arched and her head tilted and her gaze far off; or freshening her mascara with slow long strokes of the small brush; or adjusting her breasts after fitting her bra, lifting them or pushing them into shape.
He could see a smile playing at the corners of her mouth when she did that, and in her eyes. And he used to love that, too.
Then, it was all different. Then there came a time when he watched the clock instead of Cecily, and he wished her gone, or he wished her back again, and nothing made sense like it did before. Maybe Cecily could see that, he thought, for she took less effort to slip out of her clothes, or was quicker to slip back into them. And sometimes they didn’t even speak, not a single word between them. That was different. And he drank more before and after, and she drank less.
On the other side of the door Cecily stopped sometimes, and she listened, before entering or after leaving. She could hear him talking to himself some days, and sometimes she thought he was already with someone else, or he was mad, or the tv was on. Sometimes she turned around and tiptoed back down the stairs and left without seeing him. And somehow he knew all this.
A whole week she stayed away, once. And he did not miss her. Did not remember what she looked like or the sound of her voice or anything about her except her name, Cecily. Then a month she was away, and then at last she did not go back.
He has other girls now. Nothing fixed. A loose arrangement of sorts at best. At worst, he rings a girl up, only she isn;t really a girl, and he leaves money by the bed for her and they don’t speak either. He watches as he always does, watches them all, the girls and the whores, watches them all undress and dress again; and he notes the small differences between them; and he remembers her then and what it was to watch her doing the same, and though it is harder and harder to recall her name, he misses her then, really misses her, and he swears against himself under his breath and he calls himself a fool for ever letting her go.
Thanks for still reading, Patty. And for still letting me play here. I am over 700 with my challenge to myself and should be able to rest come Christmas! Hope you are writing lots… you could maybe link to some so I can read more of your work?
Patricia Ann McNair 
He used to love to watch her – dressing or undressing, it did not matter which for there was wonder in both, and mystery, too. All those fiddly little fastenings, and the way Cecily unbuttoned her blouse from the bottom up, and how she removed her underwear before she removed her dress; or putting her pants on last, even after applying her make-up and brushing her hair.
And there were the little tricks she performed to make herself look better. Cecily’d pinch her cheeks pink just before walking out, just lightly, and not really pinching so much as caressing roughly – the same way he touched her breasts when they were in bed, he thought. And she licked her lips, too, so they looked wet, or she drained her wine and the effect was the same. And she pouted in front of the mirror, making one half of a kiss with her lips; or she dipped her head, deep enough so her hair fell full across her face, and then she flicked her head back and it gave extra fullness to her hair somehow.
He used to love watching Cecily and the small shift from who she was dressed to who she was undressed; and the shift back again.
Cecily saw all that and she made something of a show of it for him, like it was a game and the rules were all unknown. And small things she lingered over, like the fitting of her earrings after they’d finished, and she’d turn her head so he could see everything more clearly, her neck arched and her head tilted and her gaze far off; or freshening her mascara with slow long strokes of the small brush; or adjusting her breasts after fitting her bra, lifting them or pushing them into shape.
He could see a smile playing at the corners of her mouth when she did that, and in her eyes. And he used to love that, too.
Then, it was all different. Then there came a time when he watched the clock instead of Cecily, and he wished her gone, or he wished her back again, and nothing made sense like it did before. Maybe Cecily could see that, he thought, for she took less effort to slip out of her clothes, or was quicker to slip back into them. And sometimes they didn’t even speak, not a single word between them. That was different. And he drank more before and after, and she drank less.
On the other side of the door Cecily stopped sometimes, and she listened, before entering or after leaving. She could hear him talking to himself some days, and sometimes she thought he was already with someone else, or he was mad, or the tv was on. Sometimes she turned around and tiptoed back down the stairs and left without seeing him. And somehow he knew all this.
A whole week she stayed away, once. And he did not miss her. Did not remember what she looked like or the sound of her voice or anything about her except her name, Cecily. Then a month she was away, and then at last she did not go back.
He has other girls now. Nothing fixed. A loose arrangement of sorts at best. At worst, he rings a girl up, only she isn;t really a girl, and he leaves money by the bed for her and they don’t speak either. He watches as he always does, watches them all, the girls and the whores, watches them all undress and dress again; and he notes the small differences between them; and he remembers her then and what it was to watch her doing the same, and though it is harder and harder to recall her name, he misses her then, really misses her, and he swears against himself under his breath and he calls himself a fool for ever letting her go.
I was hoping you would do this one, Lindsay! Thank you. Love it.
Thanks for still reading, Patty. And for still letting me play here. I am over 700 with my challenge to myself and should be able to rest come Christmas! Hope you are writing lots… you could maybe link to some so I can read more of your work?