Windows_by_JM_Snyder

Windows By J.M. Snyder There’s a U-Haul truck parked in front of the house next door when I step out on my porch to check the mail. I hear the back roll up, boyish laughter, a man’s voice saying something low and unintelligible, more laughter, another man giggling, “Rudy, stop it.” Kids, I think as I pull the few bills and mail-order catalogues from my mailbox. They shouldn’t sell homes to the college students—they turn the places into party houses, people crawling all over the yard, cars up and down the block. That’s the last thing this neighborhood needs, you know? And why’d it have to be the house next to mine? From inside the truck, I hear the scrape of heavy furniture, something dropped, a gasp and the same guy calling out, “Watch it! That’s authentic. Rudy, honey…no, wait—” A loud crash and I stop, interested in spite of myself. The guy has one of those voices that you hear and just know he’s into boys, it’s painfully clear. A little queeny, with that slight lisp the comedians always make fun of in gay jokes. Leaning against the railing, I flip through my mail half-heartedly and wait to catch a glimpse of this kid and the Rudy he’s now bitching out for dropping the vase. He actually says vaaz, making me smile. Maybe a new neighbor won’t be so bad after all. When he finally steps into view, I have to catch my breath. Damn. I know I’m staring, but just…damn. Short dark hair, real short, cut close to his head with bleached bangs combed down flat in a monk’s cut. No shirt to hide his thick, tanned arms or his broad chest, which is smooth and muscled. Swim trunks, tanned legs, strong thighs—I’d swear the May heat just went up another ten degrees. No shoes, that’s cute. I like the way his shorts hang a little low on his hips. They pull down farther when someone inside the truck throws a ring of keys at him and it falls through his hands so he bends over to pick it up. No tan lines, I’m impressed. The boy screams summer. I stare at him and think of beaches and Frisbees and surfing, boardwalks, those red-and-white striped changing tents that are synonymous with the Beach Boys and the sixties. “You didn’t have to throw them, Rudy,” the guy says with a pout. God! He even crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at the truck like a little kid, pulling off the wounded diva stance perfectly. I want to call out to him myself, apologize for Rudy’s behavior, tell him to come on over here and I’ll kiss that pout away myself. Careful, Thom, a voice inside my head whispers, sobering me up. The smile dissolves from my face and my hands tighten around the mail unconsciously. You don’t need to be getting involved with anyone right now, least of all the new guy next door. Remember John? Ah yes, my lover of seven months—how could I forget him? It’s been three weeks since I came home early from the plant and found him in the living room with Sean, the friend he swore was nothing to worry about, ‘the friend’ he told me I was silly to be jealous of. I can close my eyes and still see the surprise written all over his face as I walked in on them, both naked, sweaty, John on his hands and knees on the floor and Sean plowing into him from behind. I can still hear John’s gasp, his “Thom, I can explain,” my own strangled voice unrecognizable as I told him to get out. Three weeks. It feels like just yesterday. No, the last thing I need is to fall for someone new. Still, I linger a moment, curious about this Rudy—I can hear his deep laugh as he jumps out of the truck, and the boy in the yard pouts harder, if that’s even possible. I’m not sure what I’m expecting—another hunk maybe, another graduate of Gold’s Gym—but Rudy dresses a little more conservatively, in jeans and a T-shirt, and he’s tall and wiry, with olive skin and black corkscrew curls and cruel eyes, one of those scowling Italian guys you’d swear has Mob connections. The Godfather type. I don’t like him, so I can’t imagine how anyone else does. Arms extended, he cajoles, “Brad, baby—” “Brad-ley,” the boy corrects, still pouting. “I don’t like Brad, Rudy, you know that.” “Brad-ley,” Rudy amends. He runs his hands up those thick biceps, I can hear the rasp of skin on skin from here, and when he kisses Bradley it’s not a friendly peck but hard and deep. I swear I feel it in my knees, that kiss. When they break apart, Bradley’s pout is gone, replaced with a mischievous grin that makes his blue eyes sparkle, and Rudy glances my way. Mine, his smirk says, and one of his hands trails down Bradley’s back to squeeze that firm, round ass. Hands off, capeche? Yeah, yeah, I get it. “Rudy,” Bradley whines. He looks over at me, another pout already pulling at his lips. I stand, stretch, and turn away. Show’s over. Just what I need, two boyfriends next door, getting it on and me all alone again. No matter how much I tell myself I’m better off without John’s cheating ass, it doesn’t make my bed any less empty at night. As I go back inside, I hear the jangle of keys, Rudy’s harsh laughter, and Bradley’s voice as he cries, “Rudy! Give those back! It’s my house, damn it.” Oh yes, this is going to be worlds of fun. Somebody shoot me now.