I watch from the high rise across the alley as the man with open curtains politely bids his latest guest adieu. It's not quite right to say that when he entertains a woman it's for my entertainment; it's not explicitly a performance. Although, the drawn window treatments give a sense of showmanship, and I'm always most entertained when it is explicit. This afternoon's caller is a petite blonde who arrived in a pink lingerie set, covered only by a wrinkly windbreaker. It cut just below her bum, her bare and milky legs cocked and slinked in his doorway. Before she'd even crossed the threshold, she'd dragged the zipper down and revealed her readied body.
All of this is available for me to see. We're essentially neighbours, this man and I. Although we've never met. His building has these wonderfully grand picture windows, two of which give me visual access into his living room and bedroom respectively. I have to believe the view back is better obscured, thanks to my scattered patio furniture and the fact that I keep the lights low when I watch him.
Afternoon Girl pulls up her panties and manages to retain some of her femme fatale persona. But there's no sexy way to put a windbreaker back on. She kisses him again and is ushered out the door. I know the elevator takes thirty-five seconds to arrive at his floor, and another twenty-five delivering a single occupant to the lobby. Sure enough, the windbreaker is visible on the sidewalk less than a minute later. She doesn't board an Uber or public transit; she simply walks on, downstage and disappearing from view quickly. My last thought of her is that she must feel the cold Spring air on her backside.
I return my gaze to the man's apartment. The time I've spent watching his guest's exit is all he needed to change into workout clothes - airy shorts, a shirt that forms around his broad chest and arms, and Nikes. He often runs after sex. It's like a spiritual cleanse before the hot shower that will give me a final spectacle for the day. He stretches a bit, I assume not just because it's responsible, but also to ensure clearance from she who's just departed. Before leaving, he pops in AirPods. I count the thirty-five seconds, and then the twenty-five. He emerges onto the sidewalk and instantly breaks into a steady jog. I'm used to seeing him at a distance, either fifty meters across the alley through our windows, or from four stories up. But he never looks small to me, his masculine physique and exemplary posture always tower over.
He trots off in the opposite direction, which means I get to watch him for longer, and even longer still when he briefly stops at a red. Here, he turns and smiles as another runner approaches. She's elegantly glided up to him, her brown ponytail poking through the back of a cap, her chiseled traps peeking over a sports bra, her ass like a valentine in purple Lulus. When he smiles at her, it's not a look of familiarity. When he speaks to her, it's not small talk, not catching up. I can't see her face, but both of us can see his, and what she's digesting only makes her human. After a moment, the walk-light switches and he gives a single wave of the hand before turning and running off. She remains on the curb just long enough to put distance between them, although not enough that he could escape her sight. When they're both gone, I eat my dinner.
It's a thirty-minute jog, never more. When I know he'll soon be closing the loop, I return to my window and watch as he drifts in from under my balcony. His cadence has stayed consistent and he slows only a little as he weaves into his lobby and boards the elevator. But something catches my eye as I avert upward. Appearing at the end of the run route, below my balcony, is the Lulu girl. She's kept back, and followed him the entire time, and unlike him, she fully stops at the foot of the building. She seems to be in deep consideration, as if the thirty minutes prior weren't enough. This doesn't last long though, and before our gentleman has made it all the way back upstairs, she's made up her mind to go inside.
This is a first. I've seen him bring women home; I've seen him summon women over. I've never seen a woman follow him in. I should be viciously jealous of her tenacity, but all I can think is 'Good for her.' Up in his apartment, the AirPods have been removed, and so has his shirt. He wades about, his ripped torso glistening with a light sweat. I can't estimate the duration of Lulu's trip upstairs because he was still on the elevator when she entered the lobby. I also can't possibly know if she was delayed upon reaching his floor. Perhaps she knocked on a few doors, or maybe she got it right the first time but had to psyche herself up first. I knew one of two things had to occur: either she'd appear in his doorway, or she'd abandon ship and dribble sadly back onto the sidewalk. It takes a solid five minutes, but I was glad it's the former, and even gladder he hasn't yet entered the shower and missed her arrival completely.
