of good neighbors

Here you are again, slouching in your chair, head bent over your laptop, trying to type at the same speed as your thoughts. A million things a minute, no less!

You stop to breathe for a while. One thing at a time, please, and you shift your focus to where it all began. You think about the man who lived across the street when you were thirteen, who would sit in his balcony and read the newspaper every day. How he looked at you from across the street on a winter afternoon and how you read his mind.

Later that evening, you slipped on the road as you brought home groceries. He was there, right behind you, to arrest your fall. You got all coy and lady-like, and meekly whispered a “thank you uncle”. At home, you thought about how his hand around your bare waist felt warm and rough and moist and electrifying at the same time.

Years later, you finally gather the strength to admit that you weren’t about to fall until you realized he was walking behind you.