They're at it again.  Next door.  God.... the walls are so thin in this crumbly old building.  My great-aunt Georgiana left me this flat in her will.  I moved here last year.  Until recently, the rooms next door had been vacant, but ever since those people moved in and took over that old pub and the rooms above, it's just been one thing after another for me.  Yes, me.  Esmerelda Abbott.  Modern day Bridgett Jones.... without the cute whimsy Renee has.  The cow. 

Not that the new neighbours have exactly changed my life in any appreciable way.  I mean, I don't go over there or anything.  I'm really not the pub sort, if you know what I mean.  Hmm.... maybe that's not quite true.  Ah, well.... the harsh reality then.  There are a lot of handsome men who frequent that pub and I'm just not sure I can measure up to the gorgeous girls I've seen them with.  I'm thirty-four.  My biggest thrill is adding to my prize collection of glass hippos.  I smoke too much.  I wear glasses.  I have cats.  And a big arse.  I hate exercise.  I should ride my bike more.  I ride the sofa instead- and wish I was riding a man.  But that never happens.  I just buy bigger pants with an elastic waist and longer shirts in an attempt to camouflage my bum.  One of these days I'm going to start beeping when I back up. 

Of course, my friends tell me I'm fabulous, as good friends are supposed to do.  Pack of bloody liars is what they are, God love 'em.  I don't really know who they're trying to fool.  Me or themselves.  They're just as pathetic as I am.  Overweight.  Overworked.  Oversexed.  Underfucked.  It's the same old story the world over.  Well, gee.... it's not so bad as that, is it now?  She's got such a pretty face.....  Mine's alright.  My eyes are bloody gorgeous, though.  Pale blue.  I like to think of them as the sparkly ribbon on a lumpy, not-so-well wrapped package.  An apt description.  Or so my Mum says.  And she's always right, much to my eternal displeasure.   

So, that's me in a nutshell.  Esmerelda.  Not 'Emmy or 'Ellie.  Just plain old Esmerelda.  Frump central.... Otherwise known as the girl in flat 4A whose hair frizzes when it rains; the girl who has suddenly found herself living next to the neighbours from Hell. 

Well, I suppose that's not quite fair to the pretty, little cows.  I have to say, as far as tenants go, they aren't half bad.  Their place is neat.  They take the rubbish bins out in a timely fashion and keep the roof garden groomed well.  One of them brought me a plate of cookies not long after they moved in.  The Skinny One.  God, she's probably never eaten a cookie in her whole life from the looks of her.  Bet she didn't even bake them herself.  Girls who look like that never do.  She rang but I didn't answer.  I fetched the offering after and ate the whole bloody plate in one go while I watched them from my upstairs window. 

I do a lot of watching these days.  Like I ever go out?  Seems there's always someone mucking about over there.  Women laughing.  Men boasting over a pint.  Cheering at darts.  In the evenings, I hear music and dancing and see couples stealing a snog (or more) out back or on the roof or bloody well any other place you can fit two bodies halfway comfortably.  Even some places you can't.  The brick walls downstairs cut out most of the din, but upstairs, the walls are just cracking plaster over ancient lathing.... quaint- but thin as anything.  You wouldn't believe the things I overhear.

Maybe I should thank them.  Does voyeurism count as sex?  I reckon it's as close as I've gotten to the real thing in months.  Nearly a year if you don't count that drunken shag I had with one of my friends last winter.  It was pathetic.  I should have stuck with my shower massager... but sometimes a girl just needs a living breathing human.  But what I really want is a partner, a lover, a real man... not just a life support system for a penis who drives a nice car and says all the right things but means none of them. 

Maybe I should lower my standards like my girlfriends have.  One has a man with a small dick and an even smaller brain.  Another has one who doesn't know how to use either at all.  Still another as one who knows his own equipment well enough but couldn't find her best bits if she drew him a diagram. 

I settled too, once.  I looked up one day and found myself with Archie bloody Bunker.  Damn it all- I hate it when my Mum is right.  She never liked him.  I sure wish I hadn't.  Not long ago, he gave me one order too many.  I shoved his flaming perfectly brewed cuppa up his arse and moved out here to this old place.

Alone again.  

Oh, I know I could have so much more if I just got out of my rut.  Got off my couch and out of my computer chair.  Left my comfort zone.  Put out some effort and met some new people instead of being content with the white lies my friends tell me.  Don't we all like to hear nice things?  I don't like change.  It's always risky.  New people may not like me.  I may have to face some uncomfortable things about myself.  Or worse, change them.  And the truth is, I'm lazy.  It's easier to believe my friends and sit home alone at night, eating Chunky Monkey ice cream out of the carton and watching from a distance than actually putting myself out there in the thick of it and risking rejection.  I can't be alone in that, certainly.   

I thought I could live with it for a while, get on with life this way.... until the new tenants next door so rudely interrupted my uninspired existence.  Damn them.  I was suddenly reminded about men.  Or more to the point... about men and women- and the myriad of things they do together.  Talking.  Laughing.  Fighting.  Shagging.....

It was a boring old rainy Tuesday when I first saw him.  Now, most of the men over there are drop dead gorgeous.... and I have names for them all..... There's Elvis and Sport, Buzz Cut and Goldilocks, Roper One and Roper Two.  (God, those boots do it for me)  And then there's Poof and The Fuehrer (who scares the piss out of me- I can't work out why they let the likes of him in!) and Mr. Handy, who I always see around the place doing odd jobs for the Skinny One.  She's louder than the other girl.  The Quiet One.  That one has better skin than I do.  I think I hate her already. 

Besides her, the only others I ever see with any regularity are The Stoic (Sweet Heaven, how I love swarthy men!) and of course, The Shadow, who usually just comes straight up the back stairs.  What is his game?  I'll work him out eventually.  I may be a bit of a frump, but I'm clever.  My saving grace, I reckon.  Or so Mum says.     

There are other regulars, of course.... but for some reason, I have trouble telling some of them apart.  Not exactly sure why that is.  Maybe it's the old wavy glass in this building's windows.  Maybe it's that half the time, I can't be arsed to go and hunt up my glasses in the middle of a good perve.  Still, even without my glasses... I always know Him.  Neo, I call him.  Because he's The One, you know?  The One.  The Way.  The Light.  All of it....  Tall and lean.  Dark.  Quiet, but with this air of unassuming strength and authority. 

Jesus, listen to me?  I sound like some pathetic romance novel...... he prowled like a panther and ripped off her knickers so he could plunder her with his throbbing manhood.... 

Bloody hell.

Bet that's as close to Neo's 'throbbing manhood' as I'm ever going to flaming get..... 

And have I mentioned he plays?  I've seen him carrying an instrument case in on more than one occasion.  My God.  When I imagine those big hands of his wrapped around that precious wood, stroking that fine instrument, making it sing...  Well, that just makes me think all the more about those fine hands of his and I can't help but wonder if they stroke a woman with the same passion and intensity I hear in his music.  Something, call it women's intuition, (hell, call it the last wish of a dry old spinster) says they do.  And that's an idea that makes me feel about as far from dry and old as a girl can get.      

So, yes, you could say my boring little existence here as been altered as of late.  Now, I've always had a vivid imagination.  Curse of the Abbott women, Mum says.  Not sure if I believe her on that one.  I can't imagine her ever thinking the kinds of things I do.  Sweaty nights of wild passion, heaving bodies and salty skin, arching backs and hoarse cries of pleasure.... 

My imagination was bad enough, and then I heard it.  Or rather, I heard them.  In the room next to mine.  Fancy that, our beds being on the same wall?  Just a few inches of old crumbling plaster separating me from........... those things they do to each other.  With each other.  For each other.....

God, it makes me so warm and flushed to even think about it.

It wasn't long after they'd moved in that I heard it for the first time.  It was late.  I was in bed, sipping some cheap vino and reading a bad romance novel, whose hero (pathetically) took the shape of my Neo in my mind's eye, when I was disturbed by a playful growl and then the crash of a door against the jam from the other side of the thin wall.

I froze, my book forgotten in my fingers.  Now, I'd heard the Quiet One moving about in her room next door, of course.  Well, I think it's her, anyway.  Hard to tell.  Anyway, I'd heard the regular stuff from her before; scrape of a chair on the floor, the jangling of a phone, the odd cough or sneeze- normal sorts of background noise all city dwellers are so used to that they hardly even register.... but I'd never heard that from her room before.  A man's voice, low and smoky. 

Aroused.    

So, the Quiet One was getting a bit?  Lucky little tart.  I tried (and failed) not to be jealous.  I tried to be annoyed instead at her soft giggle and his low, dirty laugh.  It sent shivers down my spine.  I dropped my book and flicked off the light in a huff, trying to fight the effect that dirty laugh had on my body by working up some righteous indignation.  How dare they keep me awake at this hour?  Never mind that I was already awake, and in no danger of falling asleep anytime soon, what with the prurient side of my brain engaged and my mind trying to conjure up the pictures to go with the sounds that I was hearing.

I jumped when they fell onto her bed and it banged sharply against the wall.  Bits of scratchy plaster rained down into my bedding.  I hardly noticed, already caught up in what was happening between them.

"Shhh.... you animal!  Someone will hear."  Her concerned whisper and then more giggles. 

"You worry too much...."  The rustle of fabric and then his appreciative groan.  "Mmmm.... I love that color on you, baby..... Forget about your neighbour and c'mere.... I want to...."  Sounds of a deep, wet kiss.   

Bit dismissive of me in the face of his own pleasure, now isn't he?  Typical man.  Sexy too, in a way.  Isn't that what we women really want?  A man so lost in the moment, so lost in his woman, that the rest of the world fades away to nothing?  Well, I have news for him!  This bit of nothing was shamelessly upending her empty water glass and pressing it to the wall in hopes of hearing them better.  I knew I shouldn't, but I just couldn't help myself.  Come on.... Like you haven't ever done anything similar? 

It was an old trick, but I really could hear them better this way.  More of the subtle noises transferred through the glass.  The creak of the bed frame and crinkle of the bedding as they rolled about.  The wet slurps and smacks of their mouths.  Her soft sighs.  His deeper, rougher breathing as he got more and more excited.

"Oh!"  Little shriek from her and then the soft sound of a playful rebuffing swat followed by his husky chuckle.  God, what did he do?  Bite her?  Suck too hard?  My mind was whirling with images.  My body was growing wet and slowly beginning to sway in time to the gentle creak of her bed.  It had been so long since I'd felt that low coil of real erotic pleasure, heavy and warm in the pit of my belly, creeping slowly lower.  Real arousal, the kind that makes your heart pound in a different rhythm and your body feel loose and languid.   

I closed my eyes and pressed my legs together, half caught up in what was happening in the bed just a few inches away from mine and half engrossed in my own little fantasy.  My dark lover rising over me, kissing me with long, deep, wet kisses.  Words from the other side of the wall brought me back from my reverie.  The hand I had slipped under my pajama bottoms and between my legs momentarily stilled.

"Turn over, baby......... no, wait... don't.  I want you this way.......... first."  I bit my lip to hold back the whimper, even as I grew wetter below.  He certainly didn't mince words.  And he wasn't afraid to tell her what he wanted.  Or to take it, if the sounds I heard after that were any indication.  

"First.....?  What do you have in mind for later, hmmm...?"  

"You know what I have in mind, honey."  Her low hum of pleasure was cut off and ended in a gasp.  The bed creaked hard.  He grunted.  She cried out softly.  The moment of penetration.  Had to be.  "Oh, God...." 

'Oh God' is right.  My knees sagged and my whole body seemed to go weak.  The glass in my numb fingers scraped loudly down the wall as I lost my grip on it.  I froze again, my heart in my throat, and then I fumbled for the glass as it fell into the pillows with a plop.  Crap!

A moment of silence and then, "What was that?  I thought I heard something...." 

Damn it.  Damn it.  Damn it!

A bit of amused annoyance in a masculine snort followed.  I abandoned the glass and pressed my naked ear to the wall, breathless and trembling.  "How the fuck do I know what it was.....?  Maybe this place is haunted.  Maybe your neighbour's a perve...."  Hey!  "Now me?  I think it's the blood pounding in my dick.....Wanna feel.....?"  He laughed then, rich and warm.  There was a sharp pointed creak from the bed, no doubt him thrusting in deep to recapture her attention.  It worked. 

She hummed softly and then laughed.  "Do that again."

Go on, man!  For the love of God!  Do it again.  I wanted my fantasy lover to do that again.  The image rose up before my mind's eye.  My fingers tangling in his dark curls while we loved.  The rasp of his hair against my smooth pale skin as he moved over me.  The blunt thudding of his heavy body as he pounded into me again and again, stretching me.  Making me burn and ache and writhe..... I shuddered and clutched at the bedhead. 

The slow, disjointed creaking picked up into a steady rhythm.  My fingers moved in time with it, slowly at first and then faster.  Deeper.  Sweat prickled at the small of my back and under my arms.  A bead of sweat trickled itchily between my shoulder blades.  I pushed my hair off my moist neck and tried to control my breathing.  I felt light-headed; afraid to breathe too loudly for fear of discovery.... and afraid if I didn't, the world would begin to spin more wildly as my oxygen-starved brain made little lights dance before my eyes. 

Faster and faster they moved.  The creak..... creak..... creak..... became creak-creak-creak..... which became creakcreakcreak.....

God, make her come already!  I was dying.  Just when I thought we all would come, he backed off.  I whimpered in frustration.  I heard them both panting.  Catching their breath.  Whispering to each other, words so low I couldn't hear, interspersed with soft laughter.  I love a man who laughs in bed.  The creaking picked up again.  I swallowed hard, hoping this time would be it.  I'm not in good enough shape to go for so long.  My heart was beating so fast, and yet, I simply couldn't stop.  So I pass out?  Small price to pay for one of the most intense sexual experiences I'd ever had.  Stupid old Archie Bunker had never gotten me this wet.  Tonight I was flowing before I'd even touched myself, from nothing more than the sounds next door and the images they sparked in my mind.  And just when I thought her lover couldn't last another stroke, the creakcreakcreak slowed again.

I nearly wept.  I think she did.  God, he was something else.  I'd never had a lover who lasted so long.  Well, there was that once when ol' Bunkie took that Viagra on a dare... but that wasn't much fun for either of us.  Talk about red raw.  My fanny was sore for a week.  This was different.  Her lover was different.  I'd never had a lover who was so skilled, who so smoothly and without embarrassment or shame slipped from one kind of lovemaking to another. 

"Please...."  Begging him now.  Go on, girl.  Beg.  I would.  I am!  "Please...." 

Yes, Please!  More.....

His voice now, low and steady.  "Turn over now, honey.... where did you put the bottle I bought?"

Bottle?  This simply could not be happening.  I heard the scrape of a drawer.  There was the rustling of bedding as they changed positions and then I caught one last exchange of whispers over the roaring in my ears.

Her first.  "Don't hurt me....."

Then him.  "Trust me."  The way he said it.... God, it was like how a woman usually calls out 'Love me!' to her partner in the throws of passion.  The plaintive cry of her heart.  Maybe it was his?  Who knew?     

My conscience prickled.  Desire overrode it.  I shouldn't be listening to this.  But I couldn't help myself any more than they could.  I turned away, putting my back to the wall instead of my ear.  It muted their voices, but I still knew what was happening.  Or at least I thought I did.  It didn't matter anyway.  What I lost in the aural sense became more rich in the physical instead.  I could only barely hear them in this position, but I could almost feel them as their bed juddered against the wall with his every thrust, transferring the vibrations from them to me.

Thwack.  Thwack.  Thwack.  

They might as well have been fucking me too.  I felt them both.  The rhythm was different now.  Slower.  More controlled and yet somehow gentler... but more powerful, too.  Intense.  I slipped down into the soft covers, my fingers buried deep between my legs.  Rubbing.  I might as well have kept them still.  It was the mental stimulation that was really getting to me.  The world spiraled tighter and tighter and then spun away in a swirl of twinkling colors as my fantasy lover took me to the same place the Quiet One's lover took her.  At the edges of my consciousness, I heard her soft cry and his deep, primal grunt. 

I didn't listen anymore after that.  My mind was buzzing louder than my body, which was boneless and floaty, well beyond anything I had ever experienced, even with a partner.  It was a thought that made me sad. 

In that twilighty place in my mind, I imagined them next door.  How he would hold her close and kiss her spine as he watched himself slide out of her body's embrace.  How he'd murmur to her and touch her there before they collapsed into the covers and shared their lover's secrets.  At least, that's what I hope he did.  My fantasy lovers usually did.  Sometimes I wanted a bit of rough, a bad boy to put it to me hard... I think most women do from time to time, but mostly, I wanted to be held and loved.  And to love back.  Is that so much to ask?

I hugged the pillow to my breast and fell asleep easier than I had in months.... and I dreamed of him.

Weeks passed.  I couldn't quite figure out the pattern of the comings and goings next door.  The Skinny One was forever flitting about.  She always seemed to be into everything.  I saw a lot of Mr. Handy Man as well.  He was always about, fixing things, squiring boxes from one pile to another, looking tasty- shirtless and sweating as he unloaded boxes from various delivery trucks.  Hell, I even spied him one morning putting the bin out back in the alley.  Sweet Heaven.  Hair all rucked up, fag dangling from his lips, impressive package hardly covered in an indecently tight pair of white cotton undershorts.  I nearly had a heart attack. 

I just couldn't work it out.  Did he live there?  Was he the one I heard at night in the Quiet One's room?  I wasn't so sure.  I've heard Mr. Handy mouthing off to the Skinny One.  He's an Oz.  Lots of them over there at the pub are, I think.  At least, I hear a fair bit of their easy speech and colorful euphemisms bleeding through the walls.  The Quiet One's lover doesn't have an accent.  Least not one I can place. 

He dreams in Italian, though.  I've heard him.  Gave me quite a fright one night when he spouted off, caught in the grip of some violent dream.  I heard her soothing him after and felt the niggling prickle of guilt again for listening in to their private lives so closely.  I'd pretty much heard it all by then.  They made love often when he visited, but they also talked late into the night.  Laughed together.  He's kind of a goof.  I've heard them watching stupid movies together on the telly.  Even overheard them having some flaming rows as well.  Those really told it all, I think.  He's more dominant than she is, but he doesn't make her back down.  He gets mad, but he listens, too.  My Archie never did that.  Still, it was the night he had that bad dream that really lingered in my mind.  Mostly for what happened after he cried out in Italian, I think.     

It wasn't long after that I came to a decision about it all.  Listening in to their intimate moments, I mean.  Letting it arouse me.  I was never very easy with it, but I admit to letting it catch me up like it did that first time.  Not often... but it had happened a time or two more.  And I always felt guilty after.  Still do, actually.     

I was on the fence about it for weeks- but then I overheard something that made me change my mind about the lovers next door.  One night, she went to bed like usual.  Alone.  Quiet.  He seemed to come and stay in spurts.  A few days there and then gone again, sometimes for weeks at a time.  I wonder what he does for a living?  Anyway, this one night- she and I- we were both dead asleep when I heard her bed bang against the wall as she woke with a start at the sound of his voice.  It frightened me too.  There have been a lot of odd noises in the night as of late that I can't quite attribute to my cats, but this was something different. 

He said only two words.  "Hold me."   I reckon she did.  Some time after that, I heard the softest, most gentle lovemaking I've ever experienced unfolding just a few inches away.  I lay there on the other side of the wall, eyes closed, silent and unaware tears were seeping from under the edges of my lashes.  It was like hearing a man's heart bleed.... and he made the most erotic sound I'd ever heard as he came.  Half exhale, half something else.  Barely a sound at all, really.  And he cried in her arms after.  I knew then that it wasn't just fucking next door.  It was love. 

He loved her.   

My bed felt more empty than ever in contrast.  I wanted someone's heart to look after like that.  I wanted to love and to be loved.  And I understood then what he meant about trust.  Trust me, he'd said to her once.  I wonder if it's because he wanted her to trust him as much as he trusted her.   

That was the last time I ever listened in while they loved.  Oh, I still got aroused and still touched myself in my bed afterwards... but I never again listened so obtrusively.  It just didn't seem right.  Getting off after hearing a quick, dirty shag was one thing- what they shared was something else.  Something precious.  Almost reverent at times, for all its playfulness.  I longed for my own dark fantasy lover and wondered what the man on the other side of the wall looked like.  Which one was he?  The Stoic?  The Professor?  Buzz?  My Neo, God forbid? 

I was afraid to find out.  

More weeks passed.  I am ashamed to say, I was more diligent than ever, watching from my window like some old biddy, ready to chase away the neighbourhood lads for having too much fun playing on the cobbles below.  Over the last few weeks, I'd had a few run-ins with a couple of the regulars.  The Quiet One seemed to have gone on holiday.  Her room had been silent for weeks.  The Skinny One was busy as ever.  I hardly saw her at all.  But the others... well, running into them is only natural, I suppose.  I do live next door, after all.

If you can call my dry existence 'living'.

As luck would have it, I ran into The Fuehrer first.  He was skulking about.  I didn't see him until it was too late.  Damn my monthly, forcing me out for Tampax in the middle of the bloody night.  He appeared from the shadows like some demon wraith.  I saw his teeth and he rumbled.  "Oi!  What you looking at?" while I stood there, agape.  I must have jumped a mile.  He growled at me and then laughed as I skittered away in a twirl of cold blustery wind, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.  I nearly wet myself I was so scared.

Some days later, I tripped over a different one of them having a snog on the front steps.  It was dark.  I'd had to work late.  I was mortified, of course, to have stepped on someone's foot.  It got worse when I realized I'd disturbed the Poof and his, er.... mate.  He blathered on, as red-faced as I was.... but still.  Not quite something a girl happens across every day, you know?  Even if she is easy about it.  And I am.  One of my cousins is a poof and I adore him to bits.  He is always after me to do something with my hair, change my clothes.... slap on some lippie and the like.  Imagine what I'd look like without him?  Maybe I should ring him....  it's been a while and my look could use some help.     

In any case, I think we embarrassed each other and that was the last I've heard of Jeff the Poofter and his lovely companion.  I didn't catch his name.  I was too distracted by the fading blood rush.  So sue me.  I looked.  I'm still a woman even if he is a bum bandit.

Two nights later, whilst attempting to change the bloody light bulb in my washroom, I discovered that I could see right into the neighbour's loo when I stood on the cupboard to the left of my sink.  What a sight that was!!  Sweet Heaven.  A young man drying himself off after a shower.  Typical of my luck, though.  I could see the finest figure of a man I ever did see-  But only the bits between his neck and his navel.  Quite a fine torso it was, as well.... but for fuck's sake... you think life could cut me a break once in a while.  I was dying to know which face belonged with that tasty body.  To say nothing of hoping for a flash of bum or a look or two at his best bits.  I couldn't quite figure out whose bathroom it was, the Quiet One's or the Skinny One's..... but I can tell you I spent days trying to work out just which head down the pub went with that gorgeous torso. 

Damn and blast.  I was more caught up than ever.  Don't you hate how life can do that to you?  You think you're safe and happy, or at least content living on the edge- and then something bloody drags you into the thick of it before you even know what's happened. 

That was me.  Dragged right in.  And not a damn thing I could do about it.  

My dark fantasy man was constantly on my mind.  When it wasn't absorbed by other things, that is.  The usual family melodramas.  The weird sounds that have been plaguing me at night more and more frequently.  My work.  (Nothing special, I'm afraid.  I work in a museum downtown.  Restoration.  Old paintings and the like.  Not glamorous, but hey, it's not everyone who can claim to have touched a Rembrandt or a Degas, now is it?) 

I was still trying to unravel the mystery of whom I kept seeing in the neighbour's loo, as well as trying to work out which regular was the Quiet One's lover.  Would I ever know?  I'm a woman who likes a mystery.  Puzzles.  Crosswords.  Clever mind games.  The not-knowing was driving me mad.  I ate less and watched more, desperate to figure out the riddle.  Hell, I was nearly desperate enough to go over to the Pub and find out.... but as usual, the same thing stopped me that always does. 

Me.

I just couldn't seem to gather up the courage.  And after all the watching I'd done, I simply didn't think I could manage to look a single one of them in the eye, let alone talk with any of them.  And Heavens above!  What if I ran into my dream man over there?  What would I say to him?  Just the thought of him sent me nearly into a catatonic state.  Well, a blushing, stammering catatonic state. 

So, I avoided him like the plague and yet still managed to surprise a few of the others.  Caught out Mr. Handy quite nicely early one morning.  I think he was having a wee out behind the bins in the alley.  Least, that's what it looked like to me.  I blushed.  He smiled and pulled a face, looking at his hand sheepishly before wiping it on his shirt.  He thought better of extending it, however, and just tipped his head at me with a "Morning, love."  Hired help.  Never can find a good one, can you?  Dirty buggers, the lot of them.   

I sniffed and tutted at him.  He might be drop dead gorgeous, but I wasn't about to touch his hand.  God only knew where it had been.  Maybe that was the problem, hey?  I tried not to think about how weak my knees were when I walked away.  I think he knew it too, the bastard.  Bet you twenty quid he smirked at my back as I left.  I hope he's charging the Skinny One a fucking arm and a leg for all the work he does round there. 

I think I'm slowly working my way through them.  The regulars, I mean.  Making an impression.  Though, I'm not quite sure what impression that might be.  Two have winked at me.  One bowed with this odd sort of Old-World formality and a polite, if quaint, greeting.  (All the while, trying not to be obvious about eyeing my bosom.)  He was so adorably cheeky.  I couldn't help but like him straight off.  Which, of course, made me more shy than ever.  

And then there was the one who smiled at me last week as I was chasing my hat down the lane.  Bloody autumn wind.  And then there was the one who waved at me as he was getting into a cab (somewhat unsteadily, I might add) late one evening.  And then there was the one who stammered and blushed when I ran into him at the chemist's three streets over.  Poor lad.  Left his johnnies on the counter and ran for it.  Reckon his girl will send him back?  I would if I was his girl, no doubt about it.   

Time rolled on.  And as life does, I was slowly starting to accept their presence.  All of them.  Not just the Skinny One and the Quiet One... but all the rest as well.  In some ways, they almost seemed more like a family than a pack of people who simply met up down the pub.  Odd how that seems to happen, isn't it? 

I was musing on that very thought early one morning (the Quiet One and her lover were back and keeping me awake) so I decided to go for a walk and then take my tea out on the stoop- out of earshot.  I must have lingered at my walk or maybe brewing up, because all was quiet by the time I was ready to head outside.  Figured I might as well take my tea there anyway.  It was a lovely autumn morning.  I like the sunshine.  And I don't see enough of it.   

Unfortunately, I damn near backed into someone as I was closing my front door, hands full of tea and biscuits.  He caught my arm gently and steadied me easily, despite the fact I'm hardly waifish.  I turned to get a look at my savior and I think my mouth actually hung open for a moment.  I was gobsmacked.  Damn it all!  The Shadow.  Whew.....  Never figured him for a redhead!  I paid a bit more attention.   

He looked rumpled.  And sexy.  Sporting a couple of days of auburn stubble on his craggy face and his long legs were encased in faded, wrinkled jeans.  He looked like sex warmed over and there was a love bite on his neck that he didn't seem the least bit embarrassed about.  He was wearing an old sweater and chewing a bagel thoughtfully as he appraised me with brilliant blue eyes.  In his free hand was a paper bag, which must have contained more soft, doughy bagels and rich dark coffee, if the fragrant smells were anything to judge by.

He swallowed and smiled at me.  "Whoa, watch yourself... it's a bit slippery out here yet."  He was right.  The stoop was littered with wet leaves.  That I hadn't bothered to sweep up yet.  Stupid, lazy cow!  He let go of my elbow and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes got more pronounced.  I melted.  Pathetic, I know.  His nimble fingers steadied my tea tray.  "Got it now?"  I nodded dumbly.  He only smiled wider.  "You be careful now, honey...."  Honey.  I watched him walk away. 

Honey.  Honey.  Honey.  Over and over it tripped in my head.  Why did that sound so familiar?  

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.  Oh my God!  I knew that man's voice!  I swayed on my feet again and leaned heavily against my front door, beyond thankful he was already legging it up the back stairs and hadn't seen my deplorable lack of poise.  Oh.  My.  God.  The Quiet One's lover was the Shadow?  All this time, I'd imagined him to be dark and swarthy...... and it turns out he's a redhead.  Doesn't that beat all? 

I burst out laughing.  Some investigative skills I have!  Mum would have hung her head in shame.  I sat down and poured myself a cuppa.  Reckon my imagination is as good as ever though, if I could so easily transform that wiry man into the dark visage I saw in my mind's eye.  I replayed our entire scene in my head and suddenly realized something.  His smile had been kind.  But knowing, too.  As if to say: Oh, I know who you are, honey... don't you think it's time you figured out who I am?

I choked on my tea, and just before I heard the skritch-bang of my neighbour's door closing, the Shadow's soft chuckle floated down to me.  Bloody.  Everlasting.  Hell.  I blushed a hundred shades of red.  And then I sat up and laughed.  By the time I had finished my tea, I was a heartbeat away from getting up and spinning around like a giddy girl.

One mystery solved, hey?  

And the best part was that there's still some inkling of hope for me and my dark fantasy man.  Well, at least there's no definitive proof he's in love with someone else.  Yet.  Reckon one of these days I might even work up the nerve to show my face in the Pub....