The only solution was killing him. It was that simple.
My boyfriend and I were lying nestled together in a sweaty tangle of sheets, sadly formed not through passionate lovemaking, nor indeed through rampant, legs-behind-your-neck, headboard-crashing-through-the-wall-into-your-neighbour's kitchen balls-deep pussy-melting fucking, but which instead had everything to do with the heatwave sweeping the city. Going outside was bad enough – moisture seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air and the humidity leached onto my skin and swept in warm, tickling trickles down my spine and between my breasts. If the liquid had been cooler then it might have been almost titillating, or at least refreshing, but as it was the fat, almost greasy droplets rolled over my body like sweat and it was never long until I was actually perspiring, the salt irritating my skin.
Somehow, the heat seemed to get worse at night, as if it built up in our apartment during the day. The city was almost always overcast too, so unlike in the deserts, the heat had no way to escape. The irony was that usually summer in the city meant that the only change to your wardrobe was adding an umbrella to keep off the rain, or switching your thick winter coat for one that, while equally warm, was also waterproof. I guess when it comes to weather you can really only please none of the people none of the time.
In any case, the duvet on my bed had been thrown into a wardrobe, and decent sheets had been replaced with the cheapest, lightest material the local supermarket had to offer. And still, despite getting only about half of my required eight hours a night over the last week, my boyfriend and I spent most of the night tossing and turning, fanning the sheets to let cool air into the ecosystem beneath and flipping the pillows constantly, in search of a mythical cold side harder to discover than the Holy Grail or a person who hasn't read a certain awful novel on that topic.
So when my neighbour breaks my tenuous hold on sleep with a 3 a.m. rendition of Radiohead's "(Nice Dream)", I'm not inclined to appreciate that at least he picked an appropriate song.
I've never really spoken to the guy, though I've run into him a few times in the hall and stood next to him as we both checked our mailboxes. Something about this city – it doesn't encourage you to get to know your neighbours. He's the sort of guy who can look anywhere between the ages of 30 and, when he smiles his so-wide-it's-goofy smile, 20. His hair is jet black and spills round his face in thick, shaggy locks that a lot of the guys in my University classes spend hours at the mirror with comb and gel to achieve, the effect lessened by their artifice. He has these sweetly innocent hazel eyes that have probably parted a lot of girls' legs, even before they hear his sexy, low-slung voice. I've never seen him wear anything but black, loose clothing, so while I can tell he's slim, I haven't a clue what his body is actually like.
I don't know what he does for a living, though he keeps really odd hours, sometimes not leaving his flat for days, sometimes being out at nine every morning of the week, sometimes heading out at midnight with a briefcase and wearing a fancy suit. The reason I notice this is the same reason that my rent is so cheap each month: apparently the floors are made out of the cheapest material that'll support a reasonably svelte human being and apparently there's nothing between them. The guy, his name is John Amberson, by the way, lives directly beneath me.
And boy does he like music. Played loud, too. It's not normally that bad – our tastes are fairly similar, and I've actually discovered a couple of great albums from hearing them seeping up from below. I'm usually a deep sleeper, too, so if he played music at night before, it was something of which I was unaware. I didn't even mind that he sometimes sung a long. I knew he lived alone – just as I knew that my next-door neighbours were involved in a sad little game of adulterous one-upmanship – and having spent a year all alone myself, I knew the sort of habits you drifted into. Amberson had a pleasant voice, in fact – not great, but certainly a lot better than most of the manufactured stuff that gets played on the radio stations, which seem to pander only to the lowest common denominator.
But here I was, balancing right between wakefulness and sleep and just about to plunge into the embrace of Dream, when suddenly Amberson is doing a duet with Thom Fucking Yorke at 3 fucking a.m. Countries have gone to war for less. What was even more infuriating was that my boyfriend had some how managed to fall asleep regardless.
I shrugged his arm from off my shoulder, not caring if he woke or not, and untangled myself from the sheets. My boyfriend groaned gently and rolled over into the space I had vacated, still frustratingly asleep. We had made love earlier, though I hadn't come. I had made him wear a condom. Heh – in this heat, we'd probably have fought for the right to sleep in the wet spot. Without pause, I headed out the bedroom door, through the hall and down stairs to Amberson's flat.
I slammed my fist into his door so hard it hurt and then held it behind my back so the jerk wouldn't see that I'd hurt it. Despite it being nearly the morning, he looked perfectly fresh, still dressed smartly in a tight black T-shirt and, naturally, black jeans. He blushed when he saw me. Good, I thought, he does know how rude he was being.
"Um, can I...uh... help you?" he asked.
"Fucking right you can," I started. "Three in the bloody morning and as if it isn't difficult enough getting to sleep in this heat, I have to contend with you going all karaoke on me."
He half-smiled, half-laughed and nodded slowly. "Of course. It's really hot and I'd pissed you off. You must just have stormed out of your flat without thinking. Hold on one second."
He disappeared into his apartment, which was fully illuminated, and came back clutching a faded grey bathrobe. "You might want to put this on," he told me. I took it, it was made of silk and so soft and smooth.
"Why would I... oh." Then it was my turn to blush. I looked down and realised that in my haste, I had forgotten that during this unprecedented heat wave I had started sleeping in the nude. With the cool air flowing from the hall air conditioning, my small brown nipples had risen to the sharp, painful-looking peaks they formed during sex. The sparse hair I leave just above my bald pussy was jewelled with sweat. My pussy itself was still sticky from earlier.
"Look, I'll turn around while you put the robe on," Amberson said.
I did so hurriedly, wrapping that stunningly soft fabric around me, feeling it caress my breasts and buttocks with intimate tenderness, letting it rest, tickling, against my slight bush. "Sorry about that," I said.
John laughed. "Trust me, darling, no man ever complains about a free show like that." I wasn't blind, of course – I'd seen that big, big bulge in his jeans. "You want to come in?" he continued.
I did so and he went to his kitchen to put on the kettle – coffee for him, but tea for me. He brought the drinks in two old, well-loved mugs – the coffee was in one reading "World's Greatest Divorcee". "So," he said, "I play my music too loud at night."
Having just indecently exposed myself to this extremely handsome man, I found it hard to be as angry as I had intended. "Well, not everyone keeps your hours and it's so hard to sleep in this heat," I began. He cut me off with an almost negligent wave of one palm.
"No, no, you're quite right. I'd forgotten how thin these walls were. I tell you, the couple who lived in the flat before you... well, I used to hear them every single time they had sex. The guy just gave these low grunts like he was pretending to be Tarzan, but the woman! Heh – it was as if she were an opera singer." He ran up and down a scale in a falsetto voice.
"Oh," I said, a little peeved again, though his performance had made me laugh a little, "is that your way of telling me that Brendan and I are disturbing
you
?"
"God no," he said quickly, "I've never heard the two of you. I didn't even know you had a boyfriend." I blushed again at that. "No, you're right. From now on at night I'll wear headphones, okay?"
"Thanks," I said. "And I'm sorry about coming down here like this."
