Alphabet Street

H is 4 Punks

As she reached his door, the sound of his stereo filled the hallway. The guitar solo became a symphony of notes, but she couldn't recognize the piece he was listening to. Tucking around a darkened corner, she peered into his room through the glass inlay of the door. Then she realized it wasn't a stereo... it was him. She had always known he could play a guitar. It seemed he could play just about anything. She thought he was talented enough to impress a bunch of jaded third graders, but she didn't know he could play like this. He was a maestro getting lost in the composition of his own making, finding euphoria there. Anticipating each of his movements, she held her breath in awe. His eyes closed as his nimble fingers worked up the indigo neck of his instrument, moving quickly as each note screamed to him beneath the pressure. She couldn't help but leave the shadows positioning herself closer for a better view, wanting to witness the intimacy of a man and his music becoming one. She began to wonder if the reflection of rapture on his face would be the same if she were the one wrapped around him, her mouth working diligently between his thighs.

Leaning in even closer, she let the music fill her through the barrier, trying to get as close as she could without getting caught, not daring to open the door or interrupt him. She took all of him in, the slouchy black turtleneck he wore, sleeves slightly rolled to the forearms highlighting each defined groove as he played, the tensed muscles of his thighs pulling at the knit of his pants. The incandescent lighting poured over his face; the wire rim of his glasses glinted casually tucked within the slight curl of his hair. She had never seen him look so beautiful, his quiet restrain and poise slipping beneath the sound. Her mind continued to stray, allowing other thoughts to slip through. As his jaw unhinged, finding power in the guitar that whined for him, an unbroken chord continued as he pressed deeper into the notes. She wanted his hands to work her body just the same, bringing her cries to full volume beneath the dexterity. The moment the nail of his thumb buzzed effortlessly up the length of a string; she was overcome by the voyeurism of her actions and couldn't help but release an audible moan. The sound of her unexpected guttural plea startled her, shaken she slid unevenly on her heel, falling forward and crashing into the door frame.

The sudden noise brought Mr. Nelson out of his focus, the music stopping instantly. Lids fluttering open, his eyes met hers briefly through the pane. In a panic, she quickly tried to hide back within the shadows, praying his glasses were more than purely aesthetic. Maybe he hadn't made her out... maybe if she was quiet enough, she could become invisible. But she was certain he could hear the pounding of her heart, terrified she had been found out. She prayed in desperation, melting into the corner just outside of his sightline. The moment she shifted to slink away; his door cracked open; a wave of anxiety rushed over her.

"Ms. Marlowe... you're usually such an early bird. What are you still doing here?" Putting his glasses back on, he peered around the opening. The light from the door softly cast into the corner of her prison... she was trapped.

"Ummm." She squeaked, trying to find something, anything to say, hoping 'fuck me' wouldn't fall out. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Tuesday?" Was his only response, cryptic, knowing it would lead to questions, hopefully blooming into a conversation, and that's all he ever wanted... more of her.

"All day, it's been Tuesday." Still, that didn't answer her question, but if he didn't press her on the ridiculousness of her own situation she could care less.

"I'm usually here Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday... sometimes Friday."

"Monday too, you work here. So luckily, I get to see your face all week. But do you always stay this late?" She stepped away from the wall finding a little more confidence in their frivolous banter.