The Sky at Night

Chapter 1 From Armand’s large, front-facing bedroom window, he could see the lights of Bankstown in the distance. It was a breathtaking view and one he enjoyed bringing friends upstairs to see. Living on the outskirts of town meant a longer drive to work—one of the downsides of buying a property so far from the centre of Bankstown. Yet his was a two-storey, brick and tile home, both affordable and peaceful, since it was located at the end of a street backed by hectares of untouched natural forest. Beyond the trees lay dairy farms, and vast crops of wheat and barley. That night, however, he was standing at the smaller, side bedroom window, which looked out over his new neighbour’s back yard. Shrouded in darkness, he’d hooked his finger around one edge of the curtain, holding it open a crack. The reason for his vigil wasn’t entirely due to the fact his new neighbour was the most handsome man he’d ever seen, though he couldn’t say it wasn’t a contributing factor. No. The reason he’d taken up position by the window was because his neighbour, for the third night running, was lying on his back lawn, staring up at the night sky. Curious, Armand searched the sky. There was a half-moon and the usual spray of stars. Nothing exceptional about those. Yet for some reason, the man next door seemed spellbound by the heavenly array. * * * * The following morning was Saturday, and Armand could have languished in bed at his leisure. But he didn’t. In fact, it was fortuitous he went outside to retrieve the morning paper when he did, for at the same moment, his neighbour was returning from his morning jog. “Hello,” called the man. Armand felt his heart skip a beat. The man was even more gorgeous up close, with his bristly jaw and tanned complexion. His chest, glistening with sweat, was covered with dark hair, which tapered to a narrow line that traced the centre of his abdomen and disappeared into his nylon running shorts. “Hi there,” replied Armand. The man held out his hand, then withdrew it and wiped it on his running shorts before proffering it again. “Sorry.” He smiled. “Ben.” “Armand.” They shook hands. “Armand? Pretty exotic name.” “I guess it is. It was my grandfather’s name. He was French.” Ben, who was still trying to catch his breath, put his hands on his hips and nodded. “Anyway, I should get to the shower.” He turned to leave. “Nice meeting you, Armand. Come over this evening for a drink if you want. If you’re not doing anything.” Armand could hardly believe his ears. “S-sure. Thanks.” He watched Ben walk up his driveway, noticing how his running shorts stuck to his muscular butt cheeks. How the patch of dark hair in the small of his back looked darker and thicker because of the sweat sticking it to his bronzed flesh. Armand could almost picture the damp jockstrap beneath Ben’s shorts. Only when Ben disappeared through his front door was the spell broken, and Armand could continue with his day.