I enjoy watching the neighbors.

I watch them outside, through the window.

I think the slimmer is very attractive. They have lived here for a year and I’ve watched them both in that time. The slimmer one has red hair and a strong jawline. Sometimes his hair is more red than now—sometimes it has lighter hues of blonde. Sometimes he keeps it short. Sometimes he keeps it long.

That one, the red one, works very early. I see him leave sometimes at 4:30. Sometimes he comes back at noon. Sometimes he comes back much later. He’s quite a busy beaver, that pretty neighbor. I think it means he must work many jobs. Sometimes he dresses casually, and others his attire is much more flattery. Flashy. Formal. He likes to wear bowties. I like the bowties. Fancy shoes that I also like. Ostentatious. Rhinestones and glitter.

They both wear glasses, but not always.

The other one has lost a lot of weight. If I had to pick one, he’s the one I would hate. His habits are more sporadic. Different. Varying. Erratic. He is harder to predict. That one has brown hair with a peppering of gray. He has small teeth and less of a pretty face. The brown is older than the red—but meeker. Timid. Passive. And weaker. His habits are weird, in a way. He is eccentric. No. He is neurotic some days. Maybe a better word would be psychotic?

They have a dog. The dog is big and yellow.

Sometimes the brown one leaves and he walks the dog that is big and yellow for long walks. He carries a knife to surprise any sneaky shadow that stalks. Late at night. 3am. Before the red one leaves. I’m a smart neighbor so I stalk but make sure I’m not seen. A shame though really, such a waste of a knife. The brown one is the meek one. He wouldn’t stab a stalker to save his life. The knife is for show. This I know, but he doesn’t though.

They walk miles; the brown one and his dog that is big and yellow. Sometimes he doesn’t walk him far at all. Sometimes he goes for a bike ride very late at night instead. Harder to predict his habits. He wears ties to work also, but not bowties. All the colors that he likes are bright and hurt my eyes. He ties a double Windsor. I don’t like his ties. He works long hours. He works in afternoons. Always after midnight is when he comes back in. Once he comes home, he doesn’t sleep much, to my chagrin.

They are lovers. I like the idea. They don’t seem to be home together a lot because of their different schedules. That makes it—harder to see them.

Harder to watch them together.

Easier to do while they sleep.

I watch them from outside, through the window.

Shhh don’t make a peep.

It is their window.

They live on the second floor and I climb the walls.

Most nights, I climb inside. So quietly they’re unaware. I come to cum enjoy our love affair.

The glasses are on the end tables. One pair that they don’t always wear on either side. The red one has nice feet. He sleeps very deep. I like to watch him sleep. I watch them at night. I don’t have to hide at the windows when they dream their dreams. His feet are soft. They are supreme. I press my tongue against them and wash and lick the sweet sweat from between each of his toes. He never knows. I often wonder what the pretty little toes taste like—not on the outside—the outside I know; on the inside is where I would like to go. Sometimes I fantasize. I fantasize about biting off the tips. Just the tips. The pretty little tips; a small little nibble for a memory lasting always on my lips. To taste the drips of warm sweet red. Red, red and divine like delicious wine. The thought tickles my haunches and sends excitement down my spine. It’s cloying and decadent and abhorrent and alluring and all things at all times. But I don’t do it tonight. He would wake. He sleeps deeply—but not deeply enough for a taste. I stroke the hair on his legs. Stroke it nice and good. Like his lover would. A gentle caress of the hair while he is unaware. I am the secret lover. The third…for now. Creeping into their bedroom without a word, silent, silent, don’t be heard. Make my love with the press of my tongue upon the sleeping beauties.

It’s always a secret, what the secret lover did. The secret lover is a secret that neither of them hid.

The brown, he snores. It is loud. I don’t like his snoring. He sleeps deeply as well. One of these nights, I’ll send him to hell. Take a cushion from the bed smother his stupid snoring head, but first we wait. Wait. Calmly wait. When I do it, that will cure it. He is hairy too. More hairy than I like, but this is in a way that is actually kind of nice. The hairs feel divine when I run my tongue across. Sublime. The chest and down his back, but not up his spine because there’s no hair there. Elsewhere the hair is everywhere. Screaming to me a siren song, begging me closer to taste. Take little tastes across his arms, his neck, his snoring face. Every hair, one by one. He kicks off the blankets—or the red one steals them just for fun. Not sure which. Doesn’t matter. More of him exposed. More to tickle with my spindly ticklers and lick, lick, lick with my dirty licker.

Their room fills with recorded thunderstorms. Out the sound comes through a speaker and that’s why they never hear the midnight sneaker. I know it’s okay to get excited. To breathe a little deeper. Even to pant. They never hear. No, they always shant. The brown one never feels while I sniff his behind not neither his ears nor when I lick the warmth deep inside. The space between his legs. Steal his seed. Crawl underneath to lay my eggs. Deep down inside. In the space below the springs. That’s where the little eggs shall hide before they crack in half and the babies sing their cries.

I could take my spindly fingers and press, press, press, down into the brown. Right into his stomach. Make a mess. I don’t want a mess. And yet I dream to do it one night, I confess. But not tonight. The time isn’t right. The eggs need just a few more weeks before they hatch open. Break in half and come alive. I can wait and bide my time.

Third lover or not, in short time, I’ll stick my spindly ticklers into a tickelty spot and dig inside and wriggle around down, down, down. Probably their throats and coax the red out from the inside and let it out in a spout ’til they both bleed out and die. But the time is not right yet, I know somehow. I enjoy watching these neighbors so they can continue to live for now..

It’s almost 4. Soon the red one will be heading out the door.

Time for me to go before I’m seen. The dog that’s big and yellow quietly barks and chases something in his dreams. I know the dog’s dreams. Silly little thing. He’s the only one of them who who has seen me for creep inside, that’s it. He sees when I come in, but he doesn’t throw a fit. He knows it’s me. Their number three. So he lets me come and go as I wish. I’m the secret lover. He knows. He knows each night I come and then I go. His master number three. Who treats him well as the other two. He always gets a treat from me.

Pat, pat the big yellow dog. I caress his head and he stirs and wakes and licks the tar from between my spindly fingers. He likes the taste. I reciprocate and taste his taste and whisper “goodnight,” before I head out on my way.

Crawling on all fours I make my way to the kitchen window—never use the doors. I climb outside, hide, hide, hide. Creep along the building walls to the attic vents. In the roof is where I nest and bask in the decadence of my memory. The eggs are laid. I am in rapture. Up in the roof. Up in the Rafters. Goodnight my lovers, I’ll be back again tomorrow and all the nights to come after.

I enjoy watching the neighbors. I especially enjoy watching them dream.
I enjoy watching the neighbors. I can’t wait to hear them scream.

I enjoy watching the neighbors.

………………………………..

This story is part of a series:
Spindly Ticks Part 2

-ss