Caught

One evening I locked up my office and went for my evening walk passing the four of them in the alcove.  They were being raucous, I had been able to hear their laughter and their slurred voices from my office though I had only been able to work out what they were saying as I got closer.  When I stepped out onto the harbour wall I heard a clear there he goes again.  It was the writer in the kind of whisper common drunk people followed by a loud what you doing?  I took another step, flooded with panic.  The writer had figured out my ruse.  He had seen through my ploy.  He had worked out I was a peeping tom.  A voyeur living a vicarious fantasy of their lives.  I was trapped.  I had to say something.  Even though I had planned for this moment I still faltered.  My plan was to greet, then continue on my rounds to check the harbour lights.  Slowly I turned, trying to remember what I had to say knowing it would all come out wrong when I heard an exclamation you fucking twat.  I turned to see them all focussing on the wine, and a spillage.  The artist was sitting on Bevin’s lap while he was pouring wine, which was why he spilled.  The writer was standing making the exclamations.  He should have been the one to top up the glasses, he would not have spilled it.  And she was sitting looking at them annoyed.  It is just wine, I thought at the time, but later I thought maybe there was another reason for her to be cross with Bevin and the artist.  I took an extra long time checking the lights, carefully touching all the joints and fittings, though, in fact, being no more efficient that a cursory glance would have been.  On my way back I felt her eyes on me.  Following me all the way along the harbour wall.  I made a point of looking over the edge every few meters and when I thought I was close enough I smiled and nodded.  She did not respond, like she was watching me but not seeing me, like I was just a shape, a pattern, not a person.  Too drunk.  The writer was watching me too.  He nodded back to me.  An exaggerated nod, nearly a bow.  As soon as I was out of sight I heard his voice, in his drunken whisper I’m going to see what he does.  Followed by a conversation of boring tasks, dull life, all the general dismissals of the workers by the aesthetes.  As I was nearing my office I heard her say she would go with him.  They were going to go, they were drunk, there could be an accident so I slipped back into my office just for their safety.  Shortly thereafter the writer and her came passed hand in hand, turning and strolling to the harbour wall.  They made short work of getting to the harbour light then dallied there.  They seemed to be posing in the strange light: the purpose of a harbour light is to guide boats into the harbour, not to create an evenly lit walkway.  I went to the door when I saw the writer had stripped off his trousers as I thought he was going to jump in, the fool!  Instead he gyrated in the light, it was possible to make out the circling shadow his cock made.  She posed, he gyrated.  Pantomiming slapping his cock against her arse.  Pantomiming shagging her with her foot on his shoulder.  They slipped but only to their knees.  They did not fall.  They were clearly shaken as they held onto each other for a while.  Then they started moving again.  Slowly.  Subtly.  It became clear they were fucking.  I only worked it out because I knew his trousers were off.  While they were fucking Bevin and the artist passed my office.  They must have left when the writer and her slipped.  Probably got bored when the pantomime ended and went in search of more wine.  I watched till the end, though watching sex at a distance is just like watching two people kiss.  Hardly any movement just the knowledge it is happening.  Then when it is done watching clothes being put back on.  Standing, bending, buckling, those can all be seen across a harbour.  Then they left.  I waited until they were out of sight, then added an extra fifteen minutes before leaving my office.

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