Her ears caught the scratch of a match from above, and her eyes turned upwards. The balconies were made of iron, painted black and designed in a lacelike crosshatch pattern. It made them more durable than wood, which could quickly splinter and rot in the everlasting freeze-thaw cycle of Denver’s winters, and less prone to rust than bare steel. And of course, in such a high-rent neighborhood, no one would dare build the balcony floors out of simple concrete.
Still, it made her feel dreadfully exposed, knowing that some p*****t below her could look up between the gaps in the metal and see her legs, or even more. More than once, to her disgust, she had seen a neighbor a little to the left and two floors below, late at night, peeing off the edge of his balcony with no more shame than a dog at
