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I try to concentrate on how much Romex cable I’ll need to complete five two-story homes. They’ll all have a similar floorplan, but some will require canned lighting while others might need a chandelier or other higher-end fixtures. Yet my thoughts keep getting sideswiped by Becca Newby. For the rest of my workday, I’m besieged by images of that ginger hair striped with green, those eyes, and the freckles splashed across her nose and cheeks. It’s irritating.
Especially when I end up so distracted that I forget what I’m doing, right in the middle of a supply list.
As often happens, I wind up having to patronize first one supply company, then the other, in order to finish gathering all the necessary materials. Since I completed my last gig just this morning, and it’s now the end of the workday, I load up my Toyota Tundra truck bed with boxes from my house, ready to transport them temporarily to the duplex I’m renting smack in the middle of town.
The old homestead where I usually reside is gorgeous and has the type of character I love in a house, but it was built in 1922 and is in desperate need of renovation. And since a waterline burst last week, I no longer have the luxury of putting those renovations off.
It takes three trips to transport my bed, dressers, clothes, appliances, and enough furniture to get by for however long the repairs and overall improvements may take. Since I’ve vacated the property, I’ve decided to update the plumbing—that’s a given—as well as the flooring, cabinetry, paint, and water fixtures.
Might as well do it all while I’m living elsewhere.
Despite being a contractor, I’m not one hundred percent sure of when everything will be done. These sorts of jobs depend on one type of contractor to do their work before the next one can come in, so this could take anywhere from several weeks to as long as six months.
I’m hoping things go smoothly enough for me to be able to move back in sooner rather than later, but let’s just say I’m not counting any chickens. No one knows better than I that renovations can go to hell in a handbasket easily. Discovering termites, a listing foundation, something not up to code, and any number of other minor emergencies can seriously gum up the works. So I’m crossing my fingers that nothing unforeseen comes along to ruin my day.
Yet it’s not an unfortunate discovery that ruins my evening later on. It’s the fact that my new next-door neighbor in the half of a duplex I’m renting apparently enjoys blasting her music at decibels loud enough for Atlanta to listen to. I put up with it for a half hour before I’ve had a bellyful.
Much as I hate social interactions, this can’t go on, especially not all night. I hate noise, particularly that garbage music she’s listening to. So I march over to the stained-glass door of light and dark orange blocks that compliments the light and dark purple blocks on my own door. There’s a sliver of clear glass on one side, a space that measures no more than a quarter of an inch, but it’s enough to see inside.
I’ve already raised a fist to pound on the wood panel a few times as I realize she’s visible through that glass, that she’s working out to that obnoxious music, and that she’s doing itin the nude.
I can’t help but zero in on those bouncing breasts of hers, ample and full with reddish-pink nipples. Then things go from bad to worse because I recognize that face, once I peer upward enough to register the owner of that naked female form.
It’s Becca.
Shit. Hell, damn,shit.
In the next instant, I’m jumping back into my own place, leaning against our connecting wall, my mind full of bare-assed images of her. And yeah, her ass is nice, too, but I have to erase those visuals. Perving on a neighbor, especially someone related to someone I know, is a disaster waiting to happen.
But expunging those internal snapshots is difficult. It’s been too long since I’ve had a lover, and the boner I grew—and still have—puts a real damper on my plans to bring another load of belongings over.
I end up having to take an icy cold shower todeflatethe situation, so I can finish my task. After that, I distract myself with the necessary evil of setting up my television and all my electronics. Another hour has passed by the time I make my temporary abode somewhat livable, yet the music still hasn’t stopped.
Either the woman is a fitness guru, or she must enjoy her journey toward going deaf.
The thumping of the music reminds me of how she looks while dedicating herself to her exercise routine, and Mr. Erection comes back with a vengeance. Pissed off, I start to take my second freezing shower of the evening, but the thought is off-putting. I choose to go with a steamy shower of relief instead, feeling a little guilty for whacking off to memorized footage of a woman only separated from me by a few crucial inches of drywall.
Good thing she’ll never know.
Two
Becca
I’ve just started my grueling workout when I hear a thump from Wilma’s side, and I know the thing I’ve been dreading must’ve come to pass. Someone has rented the other half of the duplex. It’s sad but inevitable. Wilma had been the perfect neighbor. She was not only lovely as a person and generous with her baking, but she was also extremely hard of hearing. This meant I could have my TV and music as loud as I wanted without any consequences.
So much for that. Hell, I’m surprised I haven’t already heard a complaint from whoever it is next door.
When another hour goes by without any word from the new tenant at all, I thank heaven for small mercies. I prepare my nightly routine of a bath with beauty bombs, bath salts, and a sugar scrub. Then I do a facial; can’t have glowing skin without it. Since I sell these products in my salon, using them regularly makes good business sense. I next apply my contingency of body lotions and eye creams—again, products I sell—when I receive a call from Jodi.
I pick up. It’s late, but my friend isn’t one to call without a reason.
“Hey, you get an invite to the big Chamber of Commerce party at the Walcott Family Home?”
I’d ignored my mail earlier, a bad habit of mine, so I go through what is mostly junk adverts. Yet there it is, a fancy envelope with its foil calligraphy and thick cardstock, sitting in the middle of the stack. This party is held every August, but this is the first time I’ve ever actually snagged an invitation. My heart does a little pitter patter of excitement. Getting A Cut Above going has made me eligible for this special shindig.
It feels like some momentous rite of passage.
“I did,” I announce to her as I click the speaker button on my phone, then rub my hands together in anticipation.
