'Just Good Neighbours' - A Short Story

The potent eroticism in this short story is the first I've let outside. It’s no less daring for being written from a woman’s point of view.

Most of the time I suppress any hint of eroticism in my writing. Occasionally I don't. This short story – the first I've let outside – is an example of the latter, made no less daring by being narrated from a woman’s point of view.

Maybe I'm indulging myself, as it’s my birthday soon; or perhaps it escaped, after bubbling underneath with no obvious outlet at a poetry evening or writing workshop. Or, just maybe, it's for a more deep-seated purpose. After all, my plans are in place, words are being written, but success is still only a dream. Improving the chances of success should be a worthy goal for any writer. So here I am: Chancing something, trying to determine the fate of similar approaches in advance. So I can listen, adapt, improve or even reject.

I hope I’ve risen sufficiently to the challenge. Am I being brave, or perhaps naïve? The story may be to your taste, it may not. But you won’t know until you read it. I hope it’s not obvious a mere man wrote it. But, if it is, I want to hear what gave me away. Use a public comment, or whisper it in my ear, but please tell me. I need to know, even if those others don’t…

If you want more tedious background on male authors writing about sex and why it matters to me, then carry on reading. If you’re already becoming impatient, then by all means skip straight to the story. After all, it’s why you’re here…

Male authors are frequently called out for inadequate and dissatisfying portrayals of sex in their books. The direst examples splashed across the interweb are just that, but they're often cited as proof that men's innate gaucheness when describing any matter concerning our bits below the belt will afflict all such attempts. Some critics even advocate for men to give up completely on writing about this key aspect of the human condition. This unrefined ineptitude has clearly impacted their appreciation of the printed page. Or perhaps Twitter drove them to say it…

From my perspective, I find it a conundrum that men can write books which are just as well received in every other respect, unless it comes to describing the common acts of human conjugation carried out by millions of people daily. Men statistically should have just as much sex as women, and there's no evidence male authors are having less sex than female authors (I hope), so lack of experience shouldn't be a factor.

So, what is going wrong here?

Can it be how men write about it, rather than what they write about? Is there too much gross description, not enough passion and feelings? Crass coarseness instead of sensual subtlety? Are emotional whirlwinds being lost in the physically obvious? Perhaps all the scathing criticism should more correctly point at male authors failing to meet the expectations of most of their readers, who are women. This means female authors writing the same scene from a woman's perspective just 'get it' more than men, at least in the eyes of their readers. Perhaps if men were writing for a majority male audience then their descriptions would past muster? But that's not an easy experiment to conduct, and I still have a nagging doubt it wouldn't make for a better book…

With my eye on that slice of the critical audience comprising sexually experienced women (and assuming the depth of such experience equates to the intensity of the received criticism) I've, perhaps naively, jumped into the abyss with a short story spiced with eroticism, narrated from a woman's point of view. Yes, I know, a man pretending to know what a woman thinks and feels. But I've said it now. I've even gone and written it. It's a first attempt, but it's important I'm on the right track. My novel needs to capture a similar depth of female emotion, from a more intimate, more fluid perspective, one that does resonate with its readership. So this is a trial run and you're the test subjects. I'll leave the 'un/willing' adjectives up to you.

Thank you for reading to the end of this introduction. Your reward for such dogged persistence is below.

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Photo by Jacky Chiu on Unsplash

Just Good Neighbours

He moved in this autumn. Every day he sits at his computer from nine in the morning until at least six in the evening. He breaks at noon, emerging from his apartment block wearing a thick coat and gloves. Just for a walk, his hands empty on his return. He also walks in the evenings, at different times, as late as ten o’clock. Never with anyone else. I’ve never seen him with anyone else.

His walks are always forty-five minutes long. Every weekday is the same. I guess his height from his long legs, and estimate five thousand steps per walk, ten thousand steps each day. But I guess he already knows this.

His desk is in the corner of his room, the monitor screen at an angle to the window. The chair he sits in is an expensive office-styled one, black with a tall back. He always wears a pair of conferencing headphones, but with the microphone pushed up, never near his lips. His work can’t involve much talking. He’s a listener.

Sometimes he sits and does nothing, staring into space, but mostly he types. He eats and drinks at his desk. It could be any time of day. Sometimes his lips move, or his mouth opens wider. He could be talking or singing to himself.

I’ve also seen him cry. The first time was a shock when I saw the tears trickling down his face. He wiped them on the sleeve of his jumper. He always wears a red, round-neck cotton jumper. And blue jeans. I’ve not seen his feet.

He lets his dark, curly hair grow longer. Then, every six weeks - always on a Saturday - he returns from his walk with it shorter. But I don’t mind what length it is.

Our neighbouring buildings are identical, with our top-floor apartments having big, full-height windows. The views from them are what attracted me. You can slide them open and walk out onto a private terrace. There are Venetian blinds on the outside of them. You can alter how much light comes in or even raise the blind completely. His blinds are normally down, with the slats open to let the light in. It’s just enough to see him most days. We don’t have curtains up here. We don’t need them. He’s the only one who can see us.

Photo by Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash

Yesterday he had looked out of his window. Then he had looked at me. Looking at him. I’m sure of it. His face didn’t change and I didn’t move. I think he has blue eyes. Then he turned back to his screen. But it was enough.

Today, he’s fully retracted his room’s blinds for the first time. So I can look into his world. The one in his room. But that doesn’t matter, as long as I can see more of him. I think that’s what he wants. To share more.

So I’ve also taken to raising my blinds in the mornings. It makes it pleasant in my living room, even if the light is better in the afternoon. When my husband comes home he lowers all our blinds and snaps the slats shut. We don’t want people looking in so much. Think of the children. I am forced to agree.

But the days are now long enough for his blinds to stay raised even as dusk falls. A single desk lamp illuminates his face. His eyes are indeed blue, but he lowers them too quickly for our gazes to meet, to appraise each other. But I haven’t given up trying.

When he finally lowers his blinds at the end of his day, I say ‘goodbye’ or ‘see you tomorrow’, also speaking only to myself. I know he can’t hear me across the gap that’s still between us. But I think it’s becoming narrower. I hope he’s also a friendly neighbour.

Another week has passed. He hasn’t changed what he does or what he wears. It makes him strange, but also intriguing. I’ve started standing closer to my windows, to get a better view. I pretend to look towards the lake. At his roof. At the raptors soaring above, or the chittering flocks of sparrows perched on my terrace railings, foraging for seeds in the cracks in the paving. Anywhere but into his room or at him. I know I shouldn’t deceive myself.

The terrace outside his room is bare of any vegetation. Soon after arriving, he sprayed something into the cracks between his paving stones. All of them, carefully, methodically. As he bent down, his jeans tightened over the backs of his legs, giving definition to his behind. I watched him the whole time, just in case he missed any cracks, the muscles in his arms repeatedly flexing as his fingers squeezed the trigger. But he didn’t. I tell myself he enjoys being thorough.

I’ve started a small garden of my own, even though it’s autumn. You can only reap what you sow. I enjoy being outside, tending to my small pieces of nature in their glazed blue pots. The asters and cyclamen with mixed heathers look good together. He looks out of the window more often now. He doesn’t pretend to look at other things. I know he’s looking at my garden. Or maybe me. It’s good to know I have an honest neighbour.

The snow has almost gone and the bulbs I planted before the winter frosts are pushing through the potted soil. I raise our blinds sooner to let in the morning light, even in my bedroom. My husband complains, but I persist. What’s the harm? We’re already dressed.

But my neighbour doesn’t. I still have to wait until nine. But that doesn’t matter. It’s good to be patient sometimes.

When he goes out for his walks now, he doesn’t wear gloves and has a thinner coat, a blue one. He has longer fingers than I remember.

Yesterday, he didn’t sit down at nine o’clock. I’d taken the children to school and was curled up in my favourite chair, reading a book. Or trying to. I’d brushed my hair once more on returning and added a touch of lipstick, which made me feel good. I kept glancing out, but he wasn’t there. I felt unsettled. Anxious. I looked out of the window again, then once more. All day his blinds stayed shut.

But the next day he was there again. It was such a relief. But he looked tired. He sneezed, catching himself unaware. His headphones fell off onto his keyboard with the intensity of it. I laughed, said 'Bless you.' I’m sure it was more of a reflex. But it still showed I cared. That I was there for him. My lonely neighbour.

Summer comes and with it the distraction of the school holidays. He’s stopped wearing his coat and hat when he walks, but still wears his jeans and even his jumper. He doesn’t cover his blue eyes, and I’m no longer content to hide my intrigue.

The warm weather means I can wear that new dress I bought back in April. I don’t think it’s too short, but I still wait for my husband to leave before changing. I like the pattern and the way it hides my bad bits. I hope he likes it too. I bought a new bra to go with it, but I might not wear that. I still have my good bits. And it is a hot day.

Photo by Raymond Petrik on Unsplash

I can hear the children playing outside with their friends, their cries echoing between the two apartment blocks. I’m wearing pink gardening gloves, wielding secateurs to trim what’s grown too fast, encouraging what’s too slow; in my impractical dress. I don’t care. I wear my hair long now, especially when I come outside. But I’ve had to tie it back for this. Some wisps have escaped and they’re tickling my neck. The sun has warmed the terrace paving, but I like the heat on my legs. A trickle of sweat runs down my neck and between my bare breasts. I kneel on a small, patterned cushion to tend to my pots, the hem of my dress riding up. I’ll reach over a larger tub. Sometimes I need to stand and stretch, pretending to look up at the sky. Outside is more colourful now. I hope someone appreciates the improving view, thanks to the efforts of their pink-fingered neighbour.

I’ve taken to opening all our windows first thing to let the cooler air blow through our apartment. The children are already awake, so they don’t mind. My husband leaves for the earlier train now. He’s busier after his promotion.

After taking the children to holiday club, I’ll often have a shower whilst playing music. I’ll sing if it’s a favourite tune. I like the water hotter than I should, and my skin turns blotchy.

Afterwards, I spin around in the breeze coming through the window, letting the air dry me, cooling my face, my back, between my legs. Sometimes I’ll lie on the bed for a while, even if it’s before nine o’clock. I close my eyes, running the tips of my fingers across the goosebumps tightening my skin. It’s good for it. I shiver sometimes, but not from being cold. Sometimes he should watch, even though I can’t see him. I would, if I was my neighbour.

July’s sultry, pervasive heat has made daytimes difficult to be outside. I find it easier to wear only the dress for gardening. The flowers are blooming, but they need lots of water. I’ve grown bolder with my neighbour. Perhaps too bold. But I don’t care. I wait until he leaves for his walk and flick the hose into the air, hoping for the water to follow in his footsteps down below. The drops splatter onto the shaded pavement. I must have touched him. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t even look up. But I’m sure he knows it’s me, his playful neighbour.

I shouldn’t allow him to frustrate me. But I adjust the hose to a fine spray and point it at my face. The mist is refreshing. I angle the hose lower and the water soaks through my dress and onto my skin. I gasp as the cold touches me and then my body reacts. Now see what you’re missing. I want to do the same to him. I want my neighbour to do it to me.

I convince my husband to buy us sun loungers for the terrace. But not a parasol, as that would block the view. He still doesn’t use his. But it means I need a new bikini. I think I can still get away with wearing one. It’s a deep, patternless red, only a shade darker than his jumper. A bit daring for my age, high on the hips, dipping low at the front, a strapless top. But I’ve been visiting the gym for several months and my muscle tone is much better. It’s good to keep fit my instructor keeps telling me, his eyes everywhere but my face.

I check my watch. It’s just gone quarter to one and I’ve been reading my book whilst sat upright on my new lounger. I can’t always focus my eyes on the page, or even at the book. My sunglasses are good at hiding where my eyes want to look. I don’t think he’s fooled. I hope not.

I push the recliner back until I’m almost horizontal. I’m facing sideways to the sun, but still towards him. The suntan lotion goes on easily. I dab it on my arms and spread it over my skin in slow circles. Another dab on my stomach and I circle lower. I can take my time. He’ll be back from his walk now. I pretend to look at what I’m doing. But I know my body. I also want him to.

I finish and continue to read my book until the sun’s heat on my side reminds me to turn. I twist onto my front and stretch my legs out, I want to wear a backless dress this evening as I’ve invited some friends to dinner. I undo the top, letting the halves fall to each side. I forget what I’ve read and move my legs slightly apart. It’s a better daydream the second time, better than the book. Later I turn onto my back, not caring what I expose to him, just him. Surprisingly wanton. Wanting him, my neighbour, every day.

It’s Sunday and my husband is tending the barbecue. The steak I bought is expensive, but he likes it, even if he struggles to cook it the way I want. I’ve been inside making salads, which the children won’t touch.

I emerge from the kitchen and breeze onto the terrace to prepare the table. He might be looking. He ought to. I had my hair done yesterday. It’s a feathered cut. I hope he likes it as much as I do. I run my fingers through my hair before looking across to his apartment, now a subconscious reflex; only to freeze, the cutlery digging into my hand.

He’s stood outside his room, on the terrace, with the window pulled wide open. Thirty metres of air lie between us. He’s wearing sunglasses, dark blue shorts and a white t-shirt. His hair is also different, in a good way. I’d like to run my fingers through it, and him mine. I’d like to smell him, and him me. I’d breathe him in. I stand, turning to face him, starting to smile. A neighbourly smile. My heart is beating faster.

Then another man comes out and stands next to him. No, this must be him. I’ve made a foolish mistake. He’s wearing his red jumper and blue jeans. My confusion mounts as I compare them. They are identical in looks and height. He puts his arm around the stranger and speaks to him, their heads close. My mind fractures with confusion and a hole forms in my stomach, but I still don’t move.

Then the twins look at me, into me. Two identical pairs of blue eyes. My smile is so uncertain. I stare back at both of them. More words are shared between the stranger and my neighbour and then the other, but still familiar one, laughs.

A woman emerges with a tray of drinks. She’s petite, pretty, with dark hair. Younger than me. She’s wearing pink shorts and a matching bikini top. The men each take a glass from her and she reaches up to kiss the stranger on the lips, slapping his rear. I feel my own lips tingle. I wonder if my neighbour would do that to me if I brought him a drink.

They clink glasses and I hear them say “cheers”, with English accents. Then they all turn to face me. He raises his glass to me and says something. I can’t hear the words, but the other two laugh. I blush. I don’t know why. But I continue to stare at them. I can’t tell if I’m angry or upset. Or both. It should be neither. They are just neighbours.

My husband’s shout brings me back to my reality. The steaks are almost ready. I lay out the cutlery on the table, my mind on him. On them. When I look up again, they’ve gone inside. But I can hear music through his window. I recognise the song. I sing it when I’m in the shower. I sing it to him as I wash myself.

I can’t talk. I can barely chew. My husband and children eat all the meat whilst I pick at my salad. They hardly notice me, nor I them. But I’ve noticed my neighbour is not so nice. Perhaps I shouldn’t share a drink with him so willingly. But I can’t take all of myself away from him, from them, my disappointing neighbours.

It’s a week later and I still can’t forget him. Them. I think I want to. I know I should. Crying once should have been enough. It’s better that way. I keep the windows closed in the morning now. It might become cooler. But I still leave my blinds open. Just in case.

Since I saw my neighbours, their windows have been shut and their blinds closed all day. Since they let me see them, they no longer take their walks. Maybe they’ve stopped sitting at their desk. I see no more red jumpers, no more glances across the space between us. No more of their silent tears. Only mine, briefly.

I stop wearing my dress for gardening, it’s become too stained with sweat and soil. The suntan lotion goes on quicker, without thinking too much. My husband is always working late, but I’m enjoying all the books I bought. And the gym. Soon I might forget about my different neighbour.

I’ve stopped sunbathing now. I don’t really need to. My skin is a deep brown and my hair sun-bleached. Even my husband has noticed, though he says it won’t last. I sometimes compliment myself, as a reminder to me, and to them, of what they’re missing. But I mustn’t want any man’s eyes on me, no matter what his blinds are telling me.

It’s just past noon on a weekday and I’ve been preparing lunch for myself and the children. Summer hasn’t departed and I’m laying out the plates on the terrace table. After lunch they’ll be back outside to play and I’ll store the recliners away. I prefer peace these days. In my apartment. In my head. Without being disturbed by my neglectful neighbour.

Returning to the kitchen, I see an envelope on the mat inside the front door. But the mail is always posted into the box downstairs. I haven’t heard a knock or footsteps.

The children burst through the door a minute later. Or maybe it was five. They’re shouting for their lunch, even though they are the delay. They find me in the living room, sat in my chair. The blank envelope in one hand, the key it held hidden in the other. No, they didn’t see anyone coming down the stairs.

My stomach is knotted and my heart beats fast with the return of my neighbour’s stares. The ones I invited. There’s no note, no writing, no keyring. Just a small photo, which I put back in the envelope when the children appeared. I’d only had time for a single, wide-eyed glimpse of it. But I know it’s me. The breeze is drying all of her skin as she lies on her side, on her bed. The head is invisible, but it would show the welcoming smile of his neighbour. Inviting him in; asking him what he wants to drink. Giving him what I think. Giving in. To taste, to touch, to drink. It’s a photo my husband would pay for. If I asked him to.

I hide the key with the photo and carefully fold the envelope into a pocket. I follow the children to the table outside, carrying their plates of food, trying not to drop them. They start eating without me. I look across to the apartment. Their blinds are open. All their blinds are open. Their chair is missing, and the lamp. Even the desk. I look along their terrace. All their furniture, in every room. All gone. My neighbours have gone.

A wave of quiet relief, tinged with lingering regret, washes over me. Then it falters. A glint of glass, a contrast of colour. Their room still has pictures on its walls. Some small, some large, some wide, some tall. I try to make out the largest one, the details unclear from where I stand. Then the fragments of my vision align to the jigsaw in my mind and recognition dawns. My hand goes to my mouth and I forget to breathe. It’s the same picture as in my pocket, but stretched across half of their wall. They’ve rendered her tanned flesh larger than life, more than real. But there’s more: I can see her head, her white teeth and blonde hair.

I run inside to get my husband’s camera from the bedroom closet, ripping it from its case and dashing back out. I aim the camera at their apartment, zooming the lens and, through the viewfinder, it focuses onto the same picture I saw. Yes, I was right. One arm is unashamedly draped under her breasts, the hand of the other squeezed between her thighs. Her stomach rounding onto the curve of her hip; legs stretched the length of the bed; calves caressing each other. A wide smile and green eyes, reflecting her renewed life. They all belong to his generous neighbour.

The children stop eating and ask me what I’m doing. I ignore them. I point the camera towards another inside wall. It frames another picture; another image lodged forever in my brain. I recognise the tied hair falling down her spine, the pattern of her dress, the brown backs of her kneeling bare legs, as she leans forward on her cushion, to tend her flowers amongst the bees and sparrows.

I pan the camera along the entire length of their apartment, stopping at each window to gaze in. There’s more of her in every room. On every wall. There’s only her and it’s all of me.

I’m talking, I’m eating, sometimes by candlelight. I’m smiling, laughing, mouth open, teeth white. Head back, head turned. Glancing, always watching. In case he is.

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

Now I’m lying in the sun, shoulders on show, buttocks and breasts barely wrapped in curvaceous red, glistening with lotion. Wayward.

Another wall: I’m kneeling, my dress riding high up my legs. Too high. Then I’m standing, arms raised, my wet dress clinging to my goose-bumped skin, transparently hugging my body. My nipples proud, my navel a depression above the darker triangle at the apex of my thighs. Willing.

There’s more. I’ve given him, them, much more: I’m basting in the sun, face down, back bare, my hips grinding into my half-hidden hand. Head turned sideways, glasses masking my eyes. My lips and legs now slightly parted; the breeze-ruffled pages of my open book, splayed fingers upending it onto the hot stone, unread. Wanton.

Yet another, and they’ve come as close as a lover would. There’s no face to recognise, but I know my body: shower water beading my tanned breasts, each drop reflecting my room, nipples again firm as my skin cools. Wet.

Then wetter; a final intermittent, overlapping cascade of me spilling diagonally across their smooth plaster: I’m twirling in my bedroom, a white towel unfurling to reveal my nakedness; damp hair reaching the dimples above the paler, shapely curves below. I’m lying across the bed, head overhanging the edge, an inverted smile with hopeful eyes, his window upside-down. Then their candid gaze captures a mosaic of me in closer pose. My back arched and knees raised, my touched body taut with them inside. Until, at the last, my eyes are tight-closed, face flushed and mouth open. Writhing.

Enough, enough. I’m sliding backwards towards their absence. My emotions re-surfacing, my body unwittingly responding. I lower the camera from what they’ve taken of me, almost from me, whilst leaving me a key to my gallery.

I sit with the children to eat. To deliberate. To reassure. To convince. Not to doubt. As I’ve been told.

I did give my all to them. Too much, but willingly. Now they’ve given back what they copied of me. Not to discard, but elevating me. To tell me they loved me, their neighbour. They’ve watched patiently, picked well, they’re beautiful. I’m still beautiful. I love them. I’ll keep them. I won’t forget them. My good neighbours.

I’d made sure the walls were bare before our new neighbours moved into the vacant apartment. Two women, in his room. They’ve been living there only two weeks. My husband didn’t notice at first, but he likes our blinds open now, and to sunbathe at weekends, reading his car magazines with his new sunglasses. He’s a slow reader.

Last weekend they turned their sun loungers to face our terrace, their younger, sun-kissed bodies stretched out opposite me. The dark-haired one waved to me yesterday. Her glass raised, a hand on the knee of the other, sporting three immodest patches of turquoise blue. Only my husband waved back and their laughter echoed across the space between us. He enjoyed that, having such close neighbours.

I’ve agreed with him just this once. Closer is still better. And being outside is good for me. So I’ve been sunbathing again - only on weekdays, in my red bikini with a boring book - and I’m no longer neglecting my garden. I think they like my new dress as much as I do. It’s green, to match my eyes. Now they rarely close their blinds. Which is better, both for them and for me.

I’ve read a photography book and my husband showed me how to use his camera. But he won’t see more of my pictures. I had tried looking through their windows again, but it wasn’t as good for what I need, what I know could be seen. I want to bring out the best of them, as my neighbour did for me. I need to be closer. To know I won’t miss what we choose to show. Woman to women, with unreserved honesty; with undeserved modesty. After all, the pictures hung in my room are an example of how close a neighbour can be.

So I had kept their key, fitted closed-circuit TV, and I hope they’ll like what we both can now see. It will be an album of them, and hopefully me. To show my husband how good I can be. Watching over our neighbours, whilst they watch me.

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