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He keeps staring at me, gripping his tiny waist, before barking out a laugh.
Now, if I thought his singing was loud, he somehow manages to add a few more decibels to his laughter. It's not a laugh, it's a motherfucking roar, full, hearty, and maybe slightly infectiousifI wasn't tired and pissed off. If he keeps going at this rate, he's going to wake up this entire side of the hotel.
"I usually don't take requests unless they're from my kids," he says once he recovers. "But you seem like a decent sort of bloke. What would you like to hear me sing?"
My brain, still foggy, sleep deprived, and possibly stuck in another time zone, takes a few seconds to process that…this guy has kids?
Really? From up here, I would've sworn he was around my age. Not that twenty-six-year-olds can't have kids, but still.
Then I latch onto another detail in what he just yelled to me.
A more pertinent one.
"I amnotrequesting a song."
"Then why did you interrupt me? I was fully killing it. Although, to be honest…" He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his hair. "I don't actually know all the words to that song, so I've been stuck on thatwhoa-oh-oh-ohpart for the last few blocks. My throat's starting to hurt a bit."
I drop my head and want to cry. Why is this my life?
Down below, the guy takes a step back, trips over something, but manages to steady himself and not fall on his ass. He looksup at me and does an unsteady bow, like I should be impressed he didn't just assplant in front of me.
"People are trying to sleep." I wave my arms at the hotel windows. "I'mtrying to sleep."
He cocks his head. "Why do you talk funny?"
"I do not talk funny."
"Are you…American?"
"I am."
"Ah, the land that invented cheese in a can. Sweet. Whereabouts are you from?"
I sigh. The last thing I want is to be striking up a conversation with some random drunk dude. Even if he does have an Abercrombie body and seems nice…ish, if I can look past the rudeness.
Which I seem to be having trouble focusing on.
Normally, I'd have no problem telling this guy to shut the fuck up, flipping him off, and slamming the window shut. You know, like a typical New Yorker.
That's what Ishoulddo. I know that. I definitelyshouldn'tanswer him with, "New York."
"Ahhh."
"Ahhh, what?"
As soon as it's out of my mouth, I'm chastising myself for engaging with him.Don't encourage the drunk locals.Didn't I see that sign passing through Immigration this morning?
"Don't like big cities myself. Had to come down to Sydney forbuuusiness." He drags the words out, then pauses. "Could you see my eye roll from up there?"
"No. But by the way you saidbusiness, I gathered you weren't exactly pleased about it."
He takes a few steps toward the building. He's standing on the road now, but I doubt this alleyway gets any through traffic."How come you don't sound more like a New Yorker? Aren't they meant to be all nasally and shit?"
"I grew up in LA––" I say, before stopping abruptly.
I really need to be shutting this down. It's late. This guy's a stranger. I need sleep.
Without shifting his eyes from me, he keeps coming closer. The definition of his body comes into better focus, and Jesus hold the window open, because he's even more ripped than I thought.
