THE DAILY STRUGGLE

It truly is very inconvenient. My neighbors at the furthest end of the airwell between the buildings are exceptionally clean. And I am on the floor in the dark. One of these days, my apartment mate is going to catch me, and she'll think I'm nuts. I'm not crazy, sweetie, I'm just being gallant.


The problem is this:

My apartment mate is a non-smoker. So all tobacco consumption elsewhere than in the kitchen, on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, ceases at or before one or two o'clock, so that the place can air out with all the windows open before she returns home. Any smoking will be in the kitchen, next to the open window, if at all.

The kitchen faces into the airwell.

[On Weekends plus Wednesday and Thursday this blogger is in Marin county.]

My neighbors start bathing in early evening, and keep it up seemingly all night. They are three women. They also like ventilation.
Their bathroom window is wide open.
Brightly lit, too.

My kitchen window looks directly through their bathroom window about forty feet away.

I'm fairly certain they're white women (i.e.: Caucasians), but other than that I couldn't tell you anything about them, because I really do my damnedest to not see anything. Couldn't even recognize them if we passed on the street.
Given that their ablutions seem to happen very frequently, and cannot be predicted, I've taken to sneaking into the kitchen on my hands and knees, raising my hands upwards while crouching to fill the kettle, then scuttling over crab-like to slide the container onto the flame. With the lights out.
Feel around for a teabag, the box is on the counter.
Clean cup from the rack, spot of milk.
Fiddle, stir, and clink.
In semi-dark.
Down.


It's NOT that I don't want to see naked women; it's just that it would be opportunistic to avail myself of the unintentional splendid view.
A gentleman must do the courteous thing, which in this case means staying at all times below window-sill level.
No accidental glances or glimpses; naked women deserve privacy.
I sometimes wish they were dirtier.
My knees hurt.

I started doing this when I noticed that whenever I wanted a cup of tea and a smoke, their bathroom window was wide open, the lights where on, and one of the ladies was in a position where she would inevitably notice me if for whatever reason I was at the kitchen sink. This usually meant that their window would be slammed shut in a hurry. With panic and indignation.
I felt guilty; they might suffer mildew because of me.
And the towels would stay damp.
How horrid!


So, in short: I have no problem seeing a clean naked woman, provided I am actually meant to see that clean naked woman. In fact, I would love to see a clean naked woman who had no objection whatsoever to me seeing her. In all her clean and naked glory. Especially if she were a clean naked woman with whom I got along very well. It's a hypothetical concept.
I haven't seen a naked women in donkey's years.
Clean or otherwise. But I know clean.
It can be quite nice.

Complete strangers, no matter how clean and naked, are different.

It would be wrong.


Crouch, scoot, scuttle. Wriggle like a snake or lizard forward to the counter and the faucet. Reach up and grab the jar of sugar, then root around for a teaspoon. Good thing the ashtray is at ankle-level, and visible in the light from the airwell. Where, beyond the line of sight, because I'm keeping low, a woman is splashing her naked body with water in gay abandon.
I'm almost certain I can smell the perfumed soap from here.
Exotic resins, vetiver, and nectarine.
It's extremely irritating.

Clean.

Quite clean.

So very very clean.

Maybe I should smoke less.



I said previously that they are three. But I may be wrong. Maybe more of them, maybe fewer. But it's a plurality, of that I'm sure.
There are different voices, you see.
They sound very young.
Vibrant.


On the whole, cleanliness is a mighty good thing.
I'm a firm believer in it, myself.



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