In a weak moment, outside, I spot the neighbor on the landing above and ask to buy a cigarette. She lives in the apartment directly above me. Petite blonde woman who by some miracle or coincidence is exactly my age. I was introduced by the building manager.
So she's chatty and this is the price you have to pay when you want a cigarette. Personally, I'd like to just buy a cigarette and leave it at that but I don't want to seem unneighborly.
Chat chat chat and glancing through her open door I pause to admire her apartment. Exactly the same layout as mine, only...
Well, god-damn if she hasn't done a bang-up job of furnishing the place. And the place is packed with stuff - book-cases, night-tables, chairs, shelves, pictures on every ledge, of family, "art" of the sort that I'm not a fan of, but her taste is pretty much the same as every other woman of her/my age, and - she's run with it, done great things, the place, cozy, clean, filled to the brim with both possessions and room to move.
She's not trying to come on to me. She wants to see my place, which is out of the question, the "studio" is in complete disarray, paints, pastels, acrylic, oil, watercolor, stacks of tarot cards and books teetering on the desk, the 20 or so candlesticks handy to my situation everywhere, more sand on the floor than on the beach, it's out of the question....
What's going on down there? She's asking, are you getting laid?, you sure make a lot of noise. This can be put down to my drunken staggering about in the wee hours knocking over every precipitously stacked picture frame, book, extraneous pieces of shit I set in the way of progress and getting lucky, a diabolical obstacle course of mine own devising, a pile of shoes at the door, laundry in the bedroom, but these aren't particularly better things to confess to so I simply sidestep the question.
She's insistent. She's not trying to get lucky, no, but it's been sooo long and damn, who's that woman I keep seeing you outside with? And I have to think, and it clicks, another volunteer from the charity shop, and laugh, nope, nope, nope.
I'm living in the land of nope.
Finally I manage to escape, go downstairs, smoke my cigarette, save the spare.
***
The night, rainy, pouring, thunder and lightning. Wake up at 3:30, restless, unable to sleep. I still have the spare cigarette.
***
Lie in bed, trying to fall back asleep. It's her turn now to make noise, the wheels of luggage on the floor above, furniture being shuffled, I'm lying there quiet as a mouse, doesn't she sleep?
There's a knocking, a scritching at the door. Damn. Apparently not.
Answer the door and she's apologetic, she's restless, can't sleep, she wants to look around my place, walks in and seats herself while I get dressed. A horrified look around convinces her of the veracity of my statement, my housekeeping is abysmal. We go for a cigarette. It's now about 4:30. Back inside, now to her place, the reasonable choice, on her sofa. She's straddling my lap fixing my collar, no, she's not trying to get lucky. She's splayed out with her painted toenails hanging over my lap. She's not trying to get lucky but damn I'm tall and handsome. A real fixer-upper. She's lifting her shirt, showing me imaginary bruises.
Now she's on her phone, wants to show me some pictures, artists she likes, "Oooops, I really should delete those..."
I avert my eyes.
And she tells me, it's a secret, I can tell nobody, her sister, the building manager....
***
We're going to be best of friends and I'm committed to taking her out sometime, someplace, a proper date, committed to helping her get lucky, I can be her wingman, what do I think of her chances?
***
And finally, finally, she heads upstairs. On her own. And this, a new best friend who doesn't want to get lucky but is going to be scratching on my door every night in the wee hours, and what can I do? I'm suddenly open to the idea of a night shift, if only this town had a Denny's or 24 hour waffle house, and I'm thinking, fucking hell, how many times have I been in this position since moving out here, and maybe I need to start wearing a clerical collar, shave my head, don the monastic robes, remove myself from every woman's list of possibilities...