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And finally, as I’m pounding, I hear the music go down slightly like he’s trying to decide if the noise is outside or the music.
It’s me, fuckface.
I’m still pounding as the door opens, and it takes everything not to keep knocking, pretending I don’t notice, and punch the man in the face.
Instead, I put my fists on my hips, standing there and putting my bitchiest face on.
“What?” he asks like I’m a nuisance tohim.
What?What?
The nerve of this fucking man. There is absolutely no way he doesn’t realize why I’m here.
But still, I rein it in.
I won’t win anything by being a bitch.
I take a deep breath, put on a sweet smile, and speak. “Hey, I just wanted to see if you could turn your music down. It’s really, really loud and I’m trying to sleep.” I smile, taking him in.
Does this man ever wear a shirt outside of work?
His torso is tanned and his chest tattooed, but his stomach isn’t a brick. His build says he lives life and he enjoys it, but he also wants to be around to enjoy it. His arms are defined and strong, one arm hanging down at his side, the other leaning on the door jam. As my eyes travel down without my permission, there is a band of underwear sticking out over a pair of loose shorts.
I force myself to look back up at assessing eyes, one eyebrow raised like he caught me taking him in, and the other has a smudge of something on it.
Charcoal, I realize. I remember having to use it in high school and how it would get everywhere.
“No,” he says.
I stand there for a moment, confused.
Did he just say . . . no?
“I, uh—I—”
“Music stays up.”
Silence.
Silence because I did not expect this response.
I expected, at worst, frustrated acceptance. But not a straight-out denial.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m not turning the music down.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like it.” Again, I blink at him. “I need music when I draw,” he says, lifting stained fingers to show me a small stick of charcoal.
“So use headphones.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like them.”
