When It Rains

The trees dance wildly, thrashing green against a charcoal sky and even the dash from the bus to the apartment block is enough to drench me through. My soaked clothes drip on the tiles leaving a trail in to the elevator. I come face to face with myself in the mirror, this is habit. I work in an office, in the basement of the building, actually I prefer to refer to it as a cave, and therefore my colleagues, the other cave-dwellers, are troglodytes. I cannot help but see my place of work and its inhabitants in this way, the association is fixed in my mind. Don't ask about how this affects my sense of self-worth.

In the mirror a partially drowned creature looks back at me through bedraggled hair, black shirt plastered to his chest and jeans clinging to thighs. Still, I am home, a long hot shower, warm towels and then food while I read. Quiet, warm and contented.

I can hear the hen-cluck and chatter of neighbours as the elevator ascends, the peck for gossip. I offer muttered prayers that the voices drifting down the shaft do not originate on my floor. However, as the elevator's rise comes to a halt the voices are clear as day. I exit, ready to nod politely, replying to greetings with my own, only slightly more developed than that offered to the strangers on the bus, and keep moving, that is essential, always keep moving.

It's the octogenarian I could hear, she squawks nineteen to the dozen, she knows everyone and everything. But who is she talking to, who got stuck? I risk raising my head, that's the other rule: avoid eye-contact. It's one half of the couple next-door: Lana, for whom I'll admit I carry a torch, a discrete torch. I can't help but notice the way the wet black blouse clings tight to the high round curve of her breasts. I have heard the octogenarian refer to Lana as a whore, I swear, in hushed tones and in discussion with one of the other fossils that inhabit this building, sharing a thin-lipped frown. God knows why such accusations were being made, I guess accusations ferment where jealousy takes root.

Of course, such animosity is never direct, she's all pleasant hellos, that's how it goes. Lana is holding a heavy grocery bag, her key is in the lock, her hair wet like mine. She's been caught, she didn't keep moving, to be fair it's damned hard to get the key in the door and get the door open in one fluid action, especially if you're weighed down with groceries.

I pass the pair with no more than a flashed, empty smile, hiding first contempt and then desire for each respective face, hoping their conversation won't suddenly swell to include me, unsure if both sentiments can be concealed simultaneously.

Key out already, my hand is going to reach the door a pace before my feet do, that's the trick: key, step, shoulder, push, and door closed behind you with your foot. My door is open, I can see at least three inches of wall inside my apartment, it's not fair, that should count, but a word snatches it away, my name is said. I could ignore it, I could pretend I didn't hear, but I paused, I know I did. Fucking amateur.

I allow myself a small, defeated sigh, back-up half a step and turn my head to look at Lana, dimly aware of the frail figure further along the hall.

Lana smiles and realisation dawns on me: it was her that said my name. She's speaking, actually asking me something, making me be involved in their conversation. Does she hate me or something? She's stopped now, her forehead is furrowed like she's awaiting an answer, but the corners of her mouth have turned up and her eyes are creeping to the side as she turns her head a fraction, she's looking back at her other neighbour, gauging her reaction. Mischief, that's what this is.

"The thing, you wanted," she says, I guess she's repeating herself, "you want to come in and get it?"

Mischief and deliverance, brains and beauty.

The door on the opposite wall opens and another fossil appears. Lana turns her head back to look at me, haste and pleading in her eyes. I nod, muttering a brief greeting to the new appearance and pull my door closed, allowing Lana to lead me in to her apartment. She closes the door and leans heavily against it, the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest as she feigns immense relief at the horror she has escaped.

"I owe you," she smirks.

She leads me through. Now, I said that Lana is half of the couple next-door, the other half is frequently away, I assume, I have met him once or twice, and that was enough. In my musings on the subject I've always assume his prolonged absences are the result of some employment that requires him to reside elsewhere, having said that there's no reason why he couldn't be in prison, or the military.

I can hear them talking outside the door, between the faltering memories, their failing hearing and the insatiable desire to share every piece of gossip, they could be there for hours. Lana has shed her shirt, bare arms and bra disappearing around the corner as I turn to look.

I've not spoken to Lana a great deal in our time as neighbours, but she's obviously very good at putting people at ease, she has a habit of making you feel like you're old friends. She's warm and welcoming, open and witty. I'm not great at personal interaction, I work in a cave remember, but for all the times I've failed in the most basic codes of sociability she has remained relentlessly happy to see me and willing to accept my faltering attempts to be normal.

"I'm trapped," I hiss at her as she reappears drying her hair, black shirt swapped for white tanktop and jeans replaced with a skirt.

"Coffee?" she asks.

"They'll be out there talking for hours,"I reply, pointing my thumb back towards her front door.

"You'll have to hide out in here then," she shrugs, "imagine the scandal," she adds, mocking with eyes wide.

Barefoot she wanders, through to the kitchen, clicking the coffee pot on. I've got my hands in my pockets, facing her as she leans against the counter and folds her arms.

"You look cold," she observes.

"Soaked, and freezing," I reply.

With a sigh and a hastily suppressed smile she marches out and along the hall towards the bedroom.

"Take your things off," she calls back over her shoulder as I watch her go, "I'll chuck them in the dryer for you, ten minutes and they'll be dry and warm."

I hesitate, it'd be easier to just leave, get out the door and in to my apartment before the women have a chance to speak to me. I really don't want to get caught in here by Lana's other half, Brad I think his name is.

"Put this on," she offers, a silk robe that'll be ridiculously small on me, hanging from her outstretched finger.

Reluctantly I take the robe.

"Are you sure it's OK me being here?" I ask.

"Why wouldn't it be?" she answers, straight-faced.

"I mean-" what do I mean? I'm intent on not insulting her by implying that any male in her apartment would only be there for sex, but refusing to acknowledge that possibility would insult her too, wouldn't it? I think the problem is that I don't know where I stand, I have a feeling that she's been flirting with me, but maybe that's just wishful thinking. "Wouldn't Brad object to me being-" I begin, knowing it sounds condescending as the words leave my mouth, like she doesn't get a say in the matter of who enters.

"That, won't be a problem," she says, silencing me with the first syllable and throwing a cool glare at me. "Not a problem," she repeats, her eyes now positively frosty.

I've clearly touched a nerve and I'd love to know which one in order to avoid further faux pas, but I'm pretty sure asking would be as bad as the original crime. This is probably why I'm single.

Relieved, at least for the time being, that my presence here is sanctioned and rubber-stamped, and eager not to irritate my neighbour, I look about for direction as to where to get changed. Risking another glance towards Lana I see her impatient expression and immediately begin to undress.

She doesn't watch me, she turns away, gazing at a print she has hanging on the wall. I watch her though, as she absently chews her bottom lip and folds her arms, drumming fingers on her elbows.

By the time I've got the robe on, bare thighs barely covered, and the heavy rumble of the dryer has begun, we're both back in the kitchen and she's chuckling to herself over how I look as she pours the coffee. I've kept my shorts on under the robe, they weren't wet and I'm not enough of an exhibitionist to walk around without them. She directs me through to the living room which, just like mine, looks out towards the opposite building, another apartment block just like ours.

It's all new-builds around here, lots of concrete and glass, floor to ceiling windows and open-plans. The opposite building appears as randomly placed rectangles of orange and yellow light where inhabitants are home. The overcast sky has darkened as the sun set behind the thick layers of cloud and the narrow balcony is awash with a sheet of rain blown by the gale-force wind.

A low beige couch lies across the middle of the room, a thick white rug and an Ottoman occupying the rest of the floor. It's sparse but warm and comfortable. A violin case leans in the corner and a sheaf of sheet music sits neatly beside it. She sees me looking.

"Uh, I wish I had more time to play," she sighs. "Sit down," she offers, turning away, and I feel the coarse couch on the backs of my thighs as the robe rides up.

She plays the violin. Who plays the violin?

Lana takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch and curls her legs up as she turns to face me. Her skirt has crept up her legs and it seems impossible that she's not exposing herself. For a couple of minutes we exist in this awkward silence, well, I think it's awkward. Every time I look her way she's smiling to herself and letting the steam from her coffee rise to her nose. This isn't like her, she's usually chatty, I can't help but think she's enjoying my obvious discomfort.

"So, how was your day?" she asks at last, sipping her coffee as her eyes find mine.

Of course, why didn't I think of that?

"Not bad," I nod, "y'know, work." I shrug. Scintillating stuff.

"Not really," she replies with a chuckle.

"Oh, well..."

I hadn't counted on that, everyone has worked in an office at some point, haven't they? I assumed there was some kind of agreement that we'd all share that mutual hell at some point in our lives.

"Sorry, what do you do?" I ask.

"I dance," she replies, "I'm a dancer."

"Oh, OK," this has come as a bit of a surprise, obviously dancers exist, I just don't expect to find them living next-door, and playing the violin, sorry, I can't shake that. I'm not sure how to process the information.

"And what does, Brad, yeah? What does Brad do?" I ask, pleased to be on safer ground, I'm sure he does something I could pretend to relate to, and I'm reminding her that I remember that she has a boyfriend and that I have no intentions beyond the platonic.

"Brad works for a security firm," Lana replies, leaning forward to place her coffee on the Ottoman. She lingers, turning the mug by its handle, her cleavage on display as her breasts hang inside her tanktop.

Of course he does, and I'm going to die.

"Well, he used to, I assume he still does, he loved his work."

I frown and look up as she turns her head to face me, her eyes catching mine and the slightest raise of her eyebrows as she realises I was looking. Her face breaks in to a grin, she's enjoying this, keeping me off-kilter.

"We're not together any more," she winks, smiling quietly to herself.

Oh, that I didn't know, how am I meant to respond? She's resting her elbow on the back of the couch and leaning her head on her hand, that same quiet smile waiting for me to speak.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say at last, but it's non-committal, it's clear that the words sound empty.

"People change," she shrugs, "we had our reasons to end things."

She tucks some loose hair behind her ear and reaches for her coffee again, keeping her eyes on mine, daring me to take another look. I deliberately cast my eyes to my coffee but I know what I could see if I choose to, and that's enough. I don't look up again until she's risen and holding her coffee to her lips.

"What about you?" she asks, "a girlfriend?"

I shake my head and permit myself a self-depreciating smile.

"I didn't think so, I don't think I've heard anyone in there with you for months," she silences her giggle by taking a mouthful of coffee.

"You mean-" I begin, pointing through the wall behind me with my thumb.

She nods, swallowing.

"These walls aren't exactly soundproof, and your bedroom is right there, yeah?"

I nod, feeling my cheeks flush hot.

"Don't be embarrassed," she reassures, her voice dropping a little lower and her hand out along the back of the couch to touch mine. "I'm sure you heard us in here often enough."

"Your bedroom is right along the hall," I laugh incredulously, but then notice the way she dropped her hand to the cushions and patted them as she spoke, and realisation hits.

"And if it's any consolation," she adds, "the she in question always sounded thoroughly satisfied."

There's that mischievous grin again, disappearing in to her mug to drain the rest of her coffee.

"This is fun," she announces, beaming at me, setting her empty mug on the table and making a show of not keeping her eyes on me. "Stay for dinner, I'll call for something."

"No really, I couldn't," I reply, but she's already leapt up and heading back out in to the hall.

"Nonsense," she shouts back.

I get up and walk to the door, wondering where she's gone. She's standing at the front door, her face pressed against the peep hole.

"They're still there," she hisses, turning to look back at me with a look of mock terror. She saunters back towards me, "perhaps you'll never be able to leave," she laughs, her fingers dragging across my chest and pulling the robe open as she passes. I re-fasten it and follow.

She wanders over to a stereo, running her finger down a stack of CDs beside it and selecting one. Some classical piece begins slow and low and she nods to herself, apparently happy with her choice. We sit back down and chat once she's ordered food and when it arrives we move to sit at the kitchen table. I like how she eats, evidently unconcerned with calorie intake, enjoying her food. She's animate, speaking continuously, gesturing with her cutlery and I realise that both knife and fork seem to point to her chest by default whether between mouthfuls or during the brief times her hands rest beside her plate.

We're drinking a bottle of wine, which she'd chose from a small rack in the corner, held up and read quietly to herself before shrugging and announcing that it'd do.

"Not bad, is it?" she hums, tipping her glass back. "More?" she asks without waiting for a reply.

She pours the last of the bottle in to her glass, seeing it amount to only a little more than an inch.

"Jesus, did we drink that much?" she laughs. "Oh well."

She rises, turns and goes to fetch another bottle. The music which has been playing continuously comes to an end and she heads over to start it playing again. She uncorks the wine, draining her glass quickly and refilling it. Then she leans across the table, eyes on mine before slipping down to watch my glass fill, she pours slowly and the alcohol has emboldened me to the point where I'll happily take in the view of her cleavage without much concern.

Sitting back down she sighs happily and resumes eating, unusually quiet for a few moments while she grins back at me.

Eventually, sated and enjoying the warm buzz of the alcohol, we both down our cutlery and lean back in our chairs.

"That was good, thank you," I sigh.

"You're welcome," she smiles, her glass in her hand as she swirls the dregs around the base.

Outside the storm hasn't let up, the lights out in the dark are broken and scattered through the endless raindrops pouring down the window.

"I'd offer you dessert," she says absently, her voice pulling my eyes back from the window, "but I'm stuffed and I'm guessing you are too."

She stretches her hands over her head, pulling her breasts higher, and folding her arms above her. Her dark eyes are glinting at me, full of implication and trouble.

"I couldn't eat another bite," I reply.

A pout flashes across her features but turns in to a grin.

"Scotch then," she replies, lowering her arms and pushing her chair back.

I stand and lift my plate, beginning to clear things, but she tuts and sits me back down.

I watch her reach for the bottle, her skirt rising just enough to reveal her pert round cheeks peeking out. She takes two tumblers and I smile as she slides a glass across the table to me.

"You didn't ask me," she says, splashing the rich amber liquid over the ice.

"Ask you what?" I reply, my relaxed intoxicated hum leaving me unusually open.

"What kind of dancer," she says, running her finger around the rim of her glass.

I'd just assumed. For a moment my buzz fades but her fingers reach across the table and flick the edge of my glass, letting the ring vibrate around as she smiles at me.

"Oh, er, what, er, what kind-?" I stutter, letting the alcohol excuse my awkwardness.

"Exotic," she replies, her hand back on her own glass, her eyes seemingly daring me to comment.

I'm still not sure how I'm meant to respond to this: pity? She's obviously doing all right to be living here. Admiration? Maybe she hates it and wants out. For all I know 'exotic' just means she holds a snake while she does it.

"You enjoy it?" I ask.

She cocks an eyebrow at me and doesn't answer, taking a sip instead.

"Any good?" I ask, I provoke, lifting my own glass.

She smirks at me, swallowing and reaching her drink across the table to tap her glass to mine.

"Now you're talking," she grins, "that's a proper question, maybe you have got some balls."

She pushes her chair back and gets to her feet, her movements at once smooth and feline. There isn't a straight edge on her. She rounds the table, takes my glass from my hand and places it back amongst the plates. Without a word she stretches a leg over my lap and takes a seat. But it's awkward, her grace falters for a moment as she frowns, turns on me and pushes the table backwards a foot, her chair opposite leaning on two legs and threatening to fall. Satisfied with the extra space she's created she turns back to face me, one hand on my shoulder, the other rising up and running through my hair as she sighs and looks down at me, setting her expression to happy contentment.

"You let me know if I'm any good," she says softly.

Her skirt has risen so high it seems impossible but the apex of her thighs is still hidden from view below the slightest curving dip of black cloth. My hands are instinctively hanging at my sides, vaguely aware of a general 'no touching' rule in such situations. I see her eyes dropping and taking note of my hands, she doesn't comment, just smiles to herself and shuffles her body tighter against mine until my chin finds the warmth of her chest.

I'm gazing up at her, looking for some sign that this is anything other than the most magnificent dream. I swallow, aware that my mouth may be hanging open a fraction and my breath coming hot over her exposed skin. She idly runs her fingertips over her cleavage and lets her hand keep moving to sweep back up in to my hair, gently pulling my head to one side and lowering her mouth to my ear, wetting her lips as if about to speak but just holding there, breathing, steady and slow. Letting me know of her control.

She's barely moved and I'm already feeling myself swell rapidly in my shorts. I assume she's aware too, there's not much between our bodies..

She hums in to my ear, flicking her tongue out against the lobe as an almost silent syllable begins.