Digital Eyes

Time to read:

2 minutes

I watch them walking in the street [pan right], arms around each other – his hand slipped into the waistband of her jeans. Subtle squeeze. In closer, alcohol glazes their eyes, shared spittle glistens their lips from previous happy engagement.

I flex my hands through the city infrastructure, knuckles cracking through intersects and power-stops, ease into her living room.

She steps through the threshold first, him behind. Giggling, swaying. Soft light sneaks through the house. Web cam [digital zoom, pixel enhancement] focuses pert breasts.

The other side of town [fibre optic cable path under their town hall], larger breasts jiggle on the dance floor. Speed fuels the dancers onwards, circling through the night round Gucci bags. Bearded men line the walls, eyeing their prey, rating their chances. Sober bartenders smile dryly, accepting notes and change, waiting for the long night to come to its inevitably messy end.

Outside a grainy image outlines a man recently de-blanketed, arms covering his head as young boots tenderise his stomach. A light flicks on above them; mother comes to the window, baby cries. She shouts at the group below before slamming the shutters closed.

Late night city traders click signals into the network, create a shoal of emails; one “Kind regards”, two “Apologies for the delay” followed by a “Formal written warning”. The man at the end of the email queue stands on the edge of the high rise block, looking down past his shoes to cars lining the street [switch to record mode, push feed to news-net]. He looks up, wind tugging his jacket – steps into nothing.

In the street a policeman looks away, winces at the wet crack on the pavement. He nods to his partner who radios for the ambulance crew [static crackles along spine]. They stand together, blue lights strobing their faces. Burning coffee, 65p from the cafe’s vending machine, waits for them on their jam sandwich dashboard.

The machinations of another city night unfold on endless repeat.

They made me to watch for them. I call myself Peeping Tom; their very own voyeur.

© Tamara Rogers