Neighbor
by Anna Collins
(word count: 4,995)
I am having an affair with my neighbor. And
it's probably not a good thing. 
Not because first of all, hello, he is my neighbor. And it
isn't because he's an ex-con who's done time for armed robbery or
that he can't take his face out of the bong for more than two seconds,
or that he's eleven years younger than me and a born-again Christian.
Or even that he doesn't own a car and has to get places like the grocery
store, on a rusty old bike. And I'm even overlooking the fact that
he didn't finish high school and ends most of his sentences with a
preposition or the phrase gnome sayin'? Although admittedly,
and without question, these are all excellent reasons for staying
the fuck away from someone.
There should be a guy wearing a tuxedo and a top hat, holding one
of those fancy black walking canes, that when every time you are about
to embark on a major faux pas, he would suddenly materialize in front
of you, point his cane high into the air, and yell at the top of his
lungs-MISTAAAAAAAKE!
As incredible as that would be, we'd probably still ignore him and
go right ahead and mess up our lives anyway. Why? Because at the time,
it all seems like fun. 'Fun' has caused people more discomfort than
a pair of shrunken stretch pants with a short crotch.
No, the reason that it's not a good thing that I'm having an affair
with my neighbor is because, well, I'm starting to kind of like the
guy. I mean like like. And Mary, mother of Christ, could I
possibly find worse? Sure, you say, it could be worse, he could be
a Republican, too.
It was supposed be 'just sex'. Just casual boinking between neighbors,
hell, we've all done that, but women have that 'intimacy' gene that
sooner or later rears its needy little head and then the real fun
starts and before you know it, we're calling on our old buddies the
prescription drugs to ease the pain of the non-ringing phone.
This is how it happened. But before I tell you the whole story, you
should know something about me. I am a very superficial and shallow
person when it comes to men. I'm not proud of it and I'm not ashamed
of it, it's just the way I'm wired. I guess I'm not 'evolved' in that
sense. I have three extremely important things I look for in a man:
I like him in great shape, gorgeous and good in bed. That's it. I
have found I will put up with inordinate amounts of shit and misery
to realize these three criteria. Not that I always get all of my criteria
satisfied, mind you, but I strive for it. I have goals after all.
Of course my mother always told me I should go for a guy with M-O-N-E-Y.
She always spelled out the letters, like that would make it sink in
better. She also said that looks aren't everything. Not a bad idea
in theory, and in my mother's defense, most of the things she told
me were absolutely one hundred percent R-I-G-H-T - like, always look
for the toilet paper before you sit down; you can't go wrong
investing in real estate, and you catch more flies with honey than
vinegar - although I myself have always preferred a pest strip.
Truth is, I tried dating a guy with M-O-N-E-Y. I lived in New York
City once and dated a multimillionaire. He looked just like one of
those plastic wild-haired trolls from the 1970s. Looks aren't everything
my mother's words echoed, and in his case they were nothing. But he
adored me, my hirsute suitor. He'd wrap his hairy troll arms around
me and we would go to fancy restaurants and drink champagne and eat
foods that most people couldn't pronounce. Every time he kissed me
I would concentrate on an Upper East Side condo in my name, but it
still didn't work, doorman and all. After the third date, I gave the
standard age-old girl excuse - I told him I was going back with my
old boyfriend. It's amazin the mileage you can get out of that lame
string of words.
But I'm sure there are a lot of handsome, rich, caring, single men
out there, who are looking for a nice girl to date, although I myself
have somehow managed to avoid every last farking one of them. But
so what? I have my own money. I have three best selling cookbooks:
"Fie on Vegetarians-Those Wheat Grass Swigging Humps: Meat is
Neat", "Enlightenment through Chocolate" and "High
Fat Recipes To Ease Depression and Loneliness and the Wines that go
With Them".
My publisher said there was a quiet majority out there was sick of
sprouts and turds, I mean curds, and that they secretly just wanted
to binge out on Snickers bars and steak - and he was right. I gave
people all the high-fat, pure chocolate, meat-mania recipes they could
ever hope for-and they loved me for it. Hence, my fortune. So my point
is, I don't need to be asking men who look like creatures out of a
fairy tail if I can please have some cash to get my bangs trimmed.
I have my own dough, thank you very much.
Back to how it happened. The affair.
One day I'm going to the mailboxes at my building to get my mail.
As I'm skimming over the latest Chinese takeout menu, wondering if
the Kung Pao chicken is better at Woo Fong's or Fung Woo's, I look
up and suddenly there is an A-D-O-N-I-S strolling towards me. I mean
a guy with the kind of looks that give you those cartoon eyes on springs
that fly out of your head as you go wow! wow! wow! Tall and tan and
dark and lovely, the Boy from Riker's Island (I found out later) comes
walking. I kept staring until he was right up next to me.
Here stood this exemplary specimen of the male gender. Over six feet
tall, short dark hair, chocolate brown eyes that when they locked
my own-danced me around in a symphony of lust and disaster, I meant
desire. (Pull that Freudian slip up by its Jungian strap!)
He was in his late 20s or early 30s. And when he smiled, he had the
whitest teeth I had ever seen in my life. I swear, you could read
by those teeth if your itty bitty book light crapped out.
So here he was, this chiseled, gleaming, gorgeous hunk-and he met
my criteria. Two of them, anyway. Quick! Think of something clever
to say! Be glib and alluring! Dazzle him with your brilliant conversational
skills and expensive education. Show him you are a sophisticated woman
of the world.
"Are those your real teeth?" I blurted, curling up one side
of my top lip like Elvis.
He laughed. And it wasn't a normal laugh. Have you ever heard someone
laugh and the laughter just doesn't sound right? Like maybe an alien
that's has entered their body? And not a good alien either. Not a
lovable ET type. More like the type Sigourney Weaver fought. Although
thinking back, I don't think that particular alien laughed at all.
But if he hadda - it would have sounded like this.
Judging from the Adonis' looks, I expected his laughter to be deep,
throaty and seductive, like every ha-ha would sound like an invitation
to fornicate. Instead it was high-pitched and asylum-ish. Put it this
way, if his laughter had been a piece of modern art it would have
been called On the Last Nerve.
"Yeah," he answered, after he stopped that hideous, ear
piercing laughter. "They're my teeth, but I bleach 'em."
While I was thinking of what to say next, and hoping the ringing in
my ears would stop, an image of him holding a tiny bottle of Clorox
and a Q-tip popped into my head. I kept drinking in his body; it was
perfectly proportioned, like Michelangelo suddenly decided David needed
a brother. Long muscular legs, a beautiful bare chest, and gorgeous
not overly muscular biceps. I purposely dropped the piece of mail
I was holding. He bent to pick it up and there it was: a butt that
looked like two flawless, medium sized honeydew melons at the peak
of ripeness. He was wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts and flip-flops,
holding on to a rusty bike. He couldn't have looked better. I was
in shallow heaven.
Then I came up with a fantastically brilliant line.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Daniel Alfano. My friends call me Danny," He pronounced
'Danny' slowly and deliberately, like he had just learned the word
in remedial reading. Okay, he didn't sound bright. But what did I
care? I wasn't interested in having him solve algebra problems, I
just wanted him to take my bra off with no problem.
"Nice to meet you Danny," I extended an oh-so-grateful-I
didn't-miss-yesterday's-manicure-appointment, hand.
"I'm Lenox. Lenox Portman. And my friends call me usually when
they need something."
"That's a weird name for a girl - Lenox."
"My mother named me after her favorite China," I explained.
"It could have been worse, I could have been named Royal Copenhagen.
Or Homer Laughlin. Try putting that on a name tag in first grade."
Didn't get it. Crickets and Tumbleweeds. Nada. Nary a chuckle. Then
again, thank God, my auditory canal was still smarting.
"So are you new in the building?" I continued, ignoring
the smell of idiocy in the air, "I haven't seen you before."
He looked at me with a blank expression. I pictured him naked, on
top of me, banging me like a screen door in a hurricane, those perfect
muscles flexing and wrapping themselves around me, his lips pressing
hotly against mine, while somewhere in the background, a Barry White
CD played. (It should be noted, the reason he looked at me blankly
was because he was I again foundout later, blasted out of his gourd
on weed.) We continued to stare at each other, each lost in our own
meaningless thoughts.
"Huh?" he finally said, trying to gain control of his short-term
memory.
"H-huh?" I answered, trying to gain control of my long-term
lust.
"I haven't seen you before," I repeated loudly and
slowly, like someone talking to a foreigner, when they think shouting
will make them understand." Do you LIVE here?"
Danny tilted his head and looked at me quizzically, brow furrowing,
like I had just asked him to explain tungsten arc welding. Then, it
dawned on him.
"Yeah, I live here. I moved in last week. 604A."
A whole week and I missed this man chop walking around in his little
skivvies? I must be slipping. (Make mental note to buy herbal brain
alertness pills like my friend Vivian takes, even if they do smell
like goat gas.)
"Cool! I'm 601A, three doors down. So what do you do?" I
asked.
"I work for myself," Danny answered, "Well, myself
and the Lord. I'm a born-again Christian." Danger! Will Robinson,
danger! more>>
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