Watching women sleep
I love to watch her when she’s sleeping. Asleep she has no pretence. There’s no guard up, or social fear. She’s not putting on an act, or pretending, she’s just her, asleep. When she loses some of the animation in her features she looks so different. It’s the time her face becomes peaceful. The blush of sleep across her cheeks gives her the look of a little girl; the wisps of her hair around her ears and over her forehead seem not to irritate her, for once.
I often watch her sleep all night. It makes me feel like her Knight in shining armour watching over her, keeping away the molesters, monsters, and the bad dreams hiding under her bed. If I stand guard her heart must feel safer. There’s a sense of that when the creases drop out of her forehead. Maybe her dreams are of puppies and rainbows and daisies. I like to think that.
She snuffles, changing position on the pillow, and it’s hard to tell how she’s feeling for a minute as her face goes through a gamut of personalities. At first it’s as if she’s looking for something – a person, a soft toy, or maybe nothing so certain? Her jaw sets firmly and her teeth seem to grind a little. Gradually though, as her eyes roll under their lids, she relaxes once more.
She’s got strands of hair caught in the corner of her mouth. I want to gently remove its slight dampness and tuck it around the back of her ear so’s I can see her beauty clearly, but I am forbidden to touch her. I am her night time protector, aloof like an angel, unable to connect physically. But I try, through sheer force of will, to let her know I love her.
Sometimes, of course, I can see the worries in her. Her restlessness is etched into her and she fidgets under her bedclothes. I can, and do, think serene calm thoughts and I feel sure they get through. She must surely hear my assertions of future care and love – she knows I will do my best for her if she’ll let me. I can cope with the responsibility. I’ve watched over her sleep for so many long nights I feel I know her. I’m sure I could break down her loss and hopelessness. I don’t mean to sound all Heroic about it because I’m sure she could bring something more to my life too; more than she does already. She brings these feelings out in me. They were lost to me, but now they’re found. Watching her sleep brings me peace too. I feel I could find my purpose with her.
Women offer up their souls when they’re asleep. I’ve seen and heard her sex; her moaning, her touching herself under the covers. I know it’s absurd to hope she’s thinking of me, but I still do. Sometimes, if it’s a hot night I can catch glimpses of more of her. Tangles of sheets, quilting knotted between her knees, the smooth skin glistening. It’s hard to avoid looking and imagining, so I don’t, I lose myself in the thoughts. They’re only thoughts, after all. No harm done. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind after all the care and attention I lavish on her. She might be pleased to offer me some small mercy for the hours I watch over her. Indeed, she might even be pleased that I see beyond the limitations of our relationship.
Could I know her better if we spoke? Spent time together? No, that’s the way misunderstandings set in. I’m sure I can make a judgement of her and our future compatibility from what I see when she’s asleep. Enough, anyway. Well, I’m hopeful and empathic.
She’s my favourite of all the women I watch.
By contrast, this one, on screen three, sometimes sits bolt upright, eyes wide, and shouts that she knows I’m watching her. But she doesn’t know. She thinks she catches me looking at her, that she has some way of knowing. Maybe it comforts her thinking she has control over me. But she hasn’t. Mostly I watch my sleeping beauty next door and I catch her doing it on playback, later on. She often pulls her night clothes up, baring herself angrily as if that’s what I want her for. I admit it is disconcerting that sometimes she meets my gaze through the camera. Though she has no idea who I am, or indeed, if I’m here at all.