Kicking a path through drifts of rain-wet gingko leaves, I followed Lynch Street up and over the hump of a hill, then followed Gower down the far slope until it emptied into Holly Park. I lingered for a moment by the gate and looked across the wide green field toward the apartment house where Erin and I lived. It was a red brick box perched on the shoulder of a low ridge, and was called The Riverside, even though the river was five blocks away. Looking up, I could see the third-storey window of the bedroom where Erin and I slept (as opposed to the window hidden around the corner, which belonged the bedroom where we fucked). The sash was pushed halfway up to let in the unseasonably warm autumn breeze, and the row of blue glass insulators aligned along the sill glinted in the fading light. I set out on the ascending path, feeling weightless despite the nagging tug of gravity. It had been a long day down at the studio where I worked, and all I wanted now was to take Erin into my arms and kiss her long and deep.
The shadow of a lonely cloud chased me into the foyer, then the sun reemerged and spilled a wine-colored glow into the lobby. The brass trim around the elevator door shone bright gold, and the checkerboard tiles of the floor revealed a network of ancient scars. I liked this old building a lot, especially the old-fashioned mailboxes with their combination locks and tiny windows, and the ceiling lights that were vaguely botanical, with globes like ripe buds hanging from thin stems. The whole place gave off a tangible aura of history, a sense of memories tucked away like paper prayers in every corner and crevice. Besides, it was nice to finally live outside the confines of the student ghetto, where we'd had our first apartment. Here in the fading heart of the city there were all different kinds of people living out their individual stories, and we liked to speculate upon the secret adventures that might be going on all around us. After all, we were both, at heart, unrepentant voyeurs.
As the elevator chimed past the second floor, I thought back to how Erin and I had laid on our stomachs and listened to the people downstairs the night before. We had been sharing a tightly-wound little joint when we heard the apartment under us come to life, the muffled sounds of doors opening and closing rising up through the gaps between rugs. No one actually lived down there, not full-time, anyway. Instead, as far as we could tell, a couple was using it for a meeting-place, somewhere to spend a few stolen moments once a week or so. Since Erin worked nights, she was often home during the day, and she occasionally woke up from her afternoon slumber to find the room filled with moans and sighs and the insistent pulse of a headboard pounding against the wall. She liked to sit by the window and wait for the couple to leave, so that, like an amateur spy, she could study them and imagine the details of their affair. By now, we thought we knew the general pattern of their relationship, though it was erratic at times, with trysts now and then happening in the middle of the night, or during the mornings for weeks on end.
This time, there must have been a good opportunity on both sides for arranging a rendezvous in the early evening. We heard water running, or rather sensed the sympathetic vibration in the tiles of our bathroom. Then we could hear the murmur of voices, a subtle hum flowing like live current under the floorboards. Erin looked off into space and smiled to herself while plucking absent-mindedly at the waistband of her panties. I lay the wet brown roach in the ashtray on the end table, then leaned over to nuzzle Erin's neck. Her hair smelled good, her skin smelled better, and my cock grew warm in anticipation of sometime soon getting to revel in the scent of her delectable pussy. But Erin pushed me away with a quiet giggle, then put her finger to her lips. She scooted her ass off the futon sofa and sank to the floor, grabbing at my hand as she rolled over on her belly. I followed her down and lay beside her, pushing all the scattered rugs and pillows into a pile against the baseboard. We turned our heads sideways so that we could face each other. Erin grinned and looked deep into my eyes while a mischievous spark danced in her own.
When I pressed my ear down, I could hear someone knocking about as if they were shifting furniture or going in and out of dresser drawers. It would have been really nice to be able to see through the floor, to hover above the couple downstairs and watch them as they moved through ritual toward sex. But listening was good, too, because then you could picture almost anything in your mind's eye. Plus, it was arousing as hell, knowing that soon our whole apartment would soak up the ghostly essence of a clandestine screw.
