He spent the rest of the day on edge, waiting for the repercussions. When he went down in the evening to have dinner with his parents (an archaic tradition they insisted on maintaining), he was waiting for one of them to say “I spoke to the new neighbours earlier, they say you were spying on her whilst she got dressed“.
Or perhaps the door would fly open and her husband would barge in, in a furious rage, intent on defending his wife’s honour from the pervert next door. But nothing happened.
Maybe, he figured, she had been too embarrassed to tell anyone. After all, it was mostly her fault. He hadn’t set up secret cameras or drilled peep holes or anything. No, he had just been minding his own business in his bedroom when a pair of tits appeared across the way. How was that his fault?
It wasn’t until around the same time the next day that it became clear she hadn’t been embarrassed about it, because there she was again, combing her hair in the window, her tits on display.
Yet this time he didn’t stare, instead making an active effort to not look. As soon as he saw her, he turned around and waited for ten minutes before looking back, at which point, she was gone again.
That evening, he again sat with his parents and ate food, and again, nothing happened. He turned the thoughts over in his mind and figured if once was an accident, then two was unlikely to be a mistake, so three would be an invitation.
So, on the third day, he sat at his computer and waited, but when the time came, she was nowhere to be seen. He waited, pretending to be gaming, but constantly glancing over to the window until after an hour, realised she probably wasn’t going to show.
Right then, he jumped up as someone knocked on the front door. His heart started racing with all the possibilities, and he ran downstairs to the front door but stopped to catch his breath and regain his composure before he opened it.
It was the delivery guy. Before James could think of anything to say, the delivery guy scanned the label on the box he was holding, thrust it into James’ hands and was off. So dedicated to his work was he, that he was already at the truck by the time James had checked the label.
“This isn’t for us,” shouted James, but the guy was already gone. He looked at the label again. It was the correct address but was for a Mrs Valerie Turner, a name he didn’t recognise. He put it on the side, figuring it was probably for one of his mother’s friends who preferred it to be sent here, so James could take delivery of it, rather than leaving it on the front step all day. Fair enough, he thought, but at least let me know to expect a delivery.
He was at the top of the stairs when there was another knock at the door. This time he descended with far less enthusiasm. He was not interested in running up and down the stairs all day to collect packages that weren’t even his.
So, when he opened the door ready to meet another delivery man, he was stunned to see his neighbour standing in front of him.
“Hi,” she said, “I live next door.”