On Thursday, I leave work early with a migraine. I am able to make it home, park the car in the garage, and unlock the front door, and then my mind is mush. I wake up on the couch a few hours later sweating under a blanket, my pants and shirt discarded on the floor, my underwear damp from sweat, but my head feeling at least a bit better.
The noise that woke me was the garage door opening. I only really hear it when it's quiet and I'm not busy doing something. But Jacob, the upstairs neighbor, has a loud truck, the engine echoing around the small concrete box that is the garage. The engine cuts abruptly, followed by the garage door shutting and the slam of the car door. I hear his footsteps passing in the hallway and heaving on the stairs.
Not that I think about him frequently. But I do live with him, I notice some things. Like how the hallway smells of cologne if he leaves in the evenings, but not when he leaves in the morning. How, when he comes home earlier in the day his footsteps stomp loudly on the stairs, but if he's coming home in the evening, he's slow and quiet.
I take a few more minutes on the couch to get my bearings, slowly sitting up and stretching, adjusting my bra when it pulls up over my breast.
There's more noises from the hallway, and I can't help myself--I choose to be nosy. With soft feet, I tiptoe to the door and hold my breath as I stand up tall to look through the peephole. Jacob's footfalls are coming down the stairs, then hit the ground, approaching my door.
All I see is a motorcycle helmet, the visor up. I can't see much of his face, since he's looking straight ahead. He's wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and boots. And he's carrying a white motorcycle helmet! He's picking up a girl! It hangs from one finger as he holds his keys in the palm of his hand and his phone in the other, texting while he walks.
I'm usually so level-headed about crushes--you get them for people you don't know, and then once you get to know them you either catch real feelings or the crush goes away. A crush isn't real. But having one on a neighbor is messy--I can't just bang one out with him and never see him again. So I've built him up in my mind instead and now I get nervous going to the laundry room because what if he walks past and sees me in my little tee shirt with no bra on?
I help myself to a glass of water standing at the sink, gulping it down. I hear the motorcycle roar to life, and I glance out to the alley behind the garage--I see the edge of the motorcycle tire come into view and then stop, idling for a few moments. I pour a second glass and drink it slower, keeping an eye out. Eventually the tire moves, and then he comes into view, his gloved hands steering the bike around the potholes, legs finding the pegs. The second helmet is secured somehow behind him, on the passenger seat. He disappears from view just as he flips the visor on his helmet down, and a few moments later I hear the bike revving louder as he leaves the neighborhood.
~ ~ ~ ~
I'm eating leftover pasta on the couch and watching Pride and Prejudice when I hear the rumble of the motorcycle engine again. I'm not going to watch through the peephole again, I tell myself.
But after a few minutes I hear two voices in the hall--a girl's voice. Without pausing the movie, I get up, untangling my legs from the blanket and setting the pasta down.
I'm too late to see Jacob, just missing his retreating back, helmet still on his head. But trailing behind him, a girl extricates herself from the white helmet, flipping a messy braid over her shoulder when she gets it off. She's gorgeous, and wearing clothing entirely inappropriate for riding a motorcycle--just a low-cut tank top and a cropped sweatshirt, and leggings low enough to reveal her pierced belly button.
They're laughing about something, and I stay listening at the door as their footsteps retreat up the stairs, a key jangles in the door. Just before the door shuts behind them, I hear a muffled smacking sound, and a squeal.
That's the other thing about this apartment--thin walls means we all hear everyone, pretty often. I pray that the older woman who lives upstairs next to Jacob's apartment can't hear very well, because both he and I have had some loud trysts here. Sometimes it's almost concerning, especially the first few weeks I lived here. If they weren't very clearly screams of pleasure, I might have worried what kind of operation he was running up there.
At first I tried my best to ignore. A polite neighbor runs the dishwasher and stays in the living room until the noises are quiet and the bedroom is safe to be in.
And then one night my date cancelled on me and I was horny and instead of leaving the room I listened in with a vibrator in my hand. I wish I could say I felt bad about it, but I didn't.
I don't listen in every time. To be honest, the louder she is, the less interested I am. It's kind of hotter to hear the muffled moans and faint scrape of the bed frame and have to use my imagination.
The walls are thin, of course. The building is old. But it's nothing crazy. I can hear the difference between two people's voices, or if he's on the phone. But I can't hear what's being said. I draw a line there anyways. It's one thing to listen in on the primal sounds we all are capable of making, and another to try to eavesdrop into a virtual stranger's life.
Maybe it's because of the migraine I'm still coming down from, but tonight I just turn the volume on the TV up louder and finish my pasta.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A short while later, I receive a text from this guy James. I haven't hooked up with him in a while--maybe two months. I didn't expect to hear from him. Last time we spoke, he was wanting to take things to the next level with a girl he was seeing. The sex was good, but I had no hard feelings.
His text couldn't come at a better time, I realize, when I hear a shriek from upstairs. It says, "Short notice, but are you around tonight?" I've never minded being a booty call.
I debate on my reply. After a couple of minutes, I settle on "What did you have in mind?"
I don't want to get my hopes up too far, so I keep the movie on and tidy up the room, just the normal things I do any night before bed. Hide the evidence of the migraine, clear my water cups and empty pasta bowl.
The text comes back soon. "Your place? My roommate is home."
