Undone
She let the scarf fall to the floor and unbound her hair as she entered the enclosure. The day had been particularly hot and sticky, making this moment of solace all the more precious. She sat on the stool near the tub, letting the cool afternoon breeze pass through her hair and chill the tiny droplets of sweat that were still beaded around her collar.
On a whim, she happened to look up and out of the latticework on the window. She thought she caught it. The tell-tale sign of movement from within. The slight shift in light and form that told her he was watching. She had been sure he was watching before. She had seen him, bold and brazen, face pressed upon the window as she pretended that she couldn’t see him. She had seen him on the street as well, as he drank coffee and talked too loudly with other men his age. When their eyes met she made sure her face remained impassive and innocent as a flower. He blushed. She did not. He had memories of her naked flesh he was trying to hide in his memory. She had nothing to hide.
Why would a good girl from a religious family ever acknowledge being watched, much less WANTING to be watched; even if only to herself.
She gathered her skirt around her thighs and peeled the wet camisole from her chest.
“I will not look, I will not look,” she whispered to herself over and over again. Although she could feel his eyes on her skin, hot and demanding like a lover’s caress, she refused to turn and look.
“If I look, it’s a sin,” she reminded herself. This was enough. This had to be enough. She stepped out of her skirt and hung it from the hook, her whole body humming with awareness of the window.
She picked up the large enameled ladle and poured the warm water over her head, letting it flow through her curly tresses and down her brown skin. Again and again, she scooped and poured until the grit and grime of the day became a runny paste. The wind blew again and her nipples hardened.
“I will not look. If I look it’s a sin,” she chanted, grabbing the soap from the dish it was kept in and roughly lathering her exposed skin. Her hands skimmed across her breasts and ducked down over her hips and buttocks, stopping momentarily between her thighs. He was watching. She knew he was watching. She could feel his blood racing through his veins as if it were her own. His heavy breathing and his desire to touch her invaded her consciousness.
He was watching, but she couldn’t look. Looking was a sin.
She told herself over and over as her hand worked furiously to “clean” her body. She rubbed again and again, harder and faster, scouring away any impurities with quick rhythmic circles. She closed her eyes against the harshness of the late afternoon sun and thought of his face. His eyes and smooth bronze skin. His hands….
And then, she was finally clean.
Taking up the ladle once again, she poured water over her head and used the other hand to wipe away the suds. The sweat and the dust of the day flowed away from her body as she poured cup after cup of warm water over her brown body.
It wasn’t until she had completed the ritual that she turned around and looked up.
