on tamales

New third-floor neighbors across the way have been pulling their blinds all the way up at night. I see them in silhouette. I don’t care. I still walk about in various stages of dishevelment, my own blinds askew. Tonight, sitting in my bra and slip at my desk, eating "southwest vegan" tamales that are mostly just black bean, I drown the tamales in local salsa verde to get some flavor. Scowling, I vow to never trust southwest-anything again. Writing, looking up to think, my gaze goes directly into the neighbor's window and someone hastily closes the blinds. A girlish man? A boyish woman? To the right, more blinds open. They've painted a wall bright cherry red. And those blinds shut with a snap. It was okay for them to look unobserved, but not to be looked at in the same way.

My blinds stay as-is, my state of undress stays, as-is. I’m too focused on the Texas heat, on writing, and on my late night, semi-tasteless southwest vegan tamales to feel the guilt they tried to infer withe snapping of their blinds.