I count myself blessed. I may be but a window, but I am frequented. We Tuscan windows are known as ‘the eyes of buildings’. Eyes are oft known as ‘the windows to the soul’. Therefore, I count myself soulful. I am an observer of encounters: both voyeuristic and by mutual consent. A connoseur of many an ‘amiable encounter’. Whatever the reason, I am much called upon you see. Perhaps the view from my aperture does it. The undulating hills make quite the scene at dusk, and in their chiaroscuro throw impressions of bust or buttocks to the eye of the beholder (depending on one’s proclivities). Maybe this inspires. Oh, I have seen it all, and inspired all. Yet I am but stone, wood and plaster. I see everything, yet feel nothing. I am as wracked as Tantalus: all temptation and no satisfaction. Poor, pitiful me.
So I document encounters, as I cannot feel them. Yes, I had one evening of great dispute in some circles, but do you really think Borachio and poor Margaret were the first? Nay, I have beheld wonders since my building. Conjunctions to baffle the most learned of geometrists. In my tenure I have seen heavenly breasts shadow-latticed by my shutters, olive-hued and lovely as raven-black curls spilled over shapely, quivering shoulders. Many a time my wooden slats have borne the weight of sweat-slicked hands seeking purchase, as some muscled amorous estate worker tended to his paramour’s needs. I have overheard my visitors speak of my fame, and bless me before their merriment. I am a shrine of Venus, and have accommodated many a Chamber of Venus in my time (with many the Spear of Mars, in hot pursuit). Yes, crude though it may be, I am proud to have known more arse-cheeks than all the public latrines in Messina.
Of course I remember Don Pedro’s sabbatical! Vividly. Of all my visitations, Borrachio’s rutting besmerched me most. I welcome all those who conduct their business between my pillars, but I abhorred his motives. In more than one Century, he was the only man who swigged from a bottle as he wooed, and sought out observers as he did so. What a vile miscreant, and Margaret so blissfully happy. Seldom do I remember being so sodden- yea, even during winter squalls, with shutters barred. She was so enamoured, poor passionate lady. Still, I heard his screams as they gelded him, the poor bastard. He paid for his deceitful seduction with his manhood. Margaret was left unscathed, I hear, and she kisses me still when her business conducts me to this very room. Perhaps because her parts and employment were spared.
You may wonder what makes me such an authority on congress. I will tell thee. My sill is made of dove tailed applewood. Of all woods, apple burns the hottest, so I am well attuned to the heat of passion. So attuned am I that my sill is twin-indented, yes worn to accommodate the Gluteal contours of my visitors, be they of either sex. I carry a high shine, by’r lord! Worn smooth and bright by exertions, and I welcome my burnishing. So much celebrity have I, and yet my four walls are naught but a store room, with a heavy, barred door. I flatter myself that I am chosen for my romance, rather than as a secure location. Though I am kept awake at times, reflecting that I am the only flat, accessible surface in the place. There has never been a bed within this place. Would my four corners be neglected if there was?
I also recall my saddest encounter, shortly after Margaret’s deception. Though Claudio knew his Hero was chaste, he still took her virginity upon me, not content until he made her bleed. How I hate him for that. More than Borachio, for all his lechery. Claudio the weak. He had to know how it felt, just in case. How pathetic fighting men can be. Indeed. Given choice, I prefer ladies. They are kinder to me, and I bear their weight happily. Of all sensations, I welcome the press of their thighs, and touch of their hands. Men are brash, and too brief in their encounters. Were I human, I would wish to be a lady. I know I would be beautiful.
© Tom Tide 2016