The car door slams outside and I peek to the left, even though I know who this is slamming a car door. It's the woman who lives next door. She seems nice; brings us fruit sometimes, has an elderly mother who I sometimes help along the path to her house, and is relatively close to the people who live a couple of doors down who own a caravan which I fully intend to steal since that's the only way I'll ever afford to live anywhere else.
I always return her smiles, because I'm pretty sure I've been a dick to her ever since I moved here.
Not deliberately. I'm genuinely a nice person. I find it awkward, sometimes, to talk to people with whom I have very little in common, but I have nothing at all against this woman. She seems nice and my parents like her. And, from what I've seen, she has a nice garden. The problem is this.
We can hear her 'phone.
I don't know how thin the walls are between SH and her house. I don't really wish to know - suburban architectural design isn't really one of my primary interests. But we can hear the rings of her telephone pretty loudly, almost as if it's in my bedroom, which is coincidentally next door to her... you can see where this is going, right?
So I've no idea how much she knows. Does she hear what goes on in my room if I can hear the incessant bells in hers?
The creaking of bedsprings as we have sex, rhythmically, heavily, with intent?
The soft, deep, rapid breaths from my girlfriend as I bring her closer to climax?
The juddering gasp I tend to give as I bring myself over the edge, brought to an end as I silently orgasm?
The slap of skin against skin? The flump of clothes falling into a heap on the floor? The mix of laughter and chatter as we experiment?
Does she know, when she walks past my window, that I have one curtain closed because I'm wanking behind it? That my ears are fine-tuned to the slamming of her car doors, the tapping of her feet against the pavement outside, in case she comes across something untoward?
Or does she know nothing at all of this? Is this worry just unfounded, and it's just me imagining all of this in my head? Making sex that little bit more elicit, knowing that everything I do carries through the paper-thin walls and beyond? Trying to stifle the moans, the cries, the grunts and shrieks, dreaming of the time in hotel rooms where we make as much noise as possible because it is our prerogative?
I don't want to know. It's much more exciting that way.