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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2010.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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The Good Neighbour
by Delta (delta*@bc.sympatico.ca)

***

A man is about to make a life changing decision when a 
woman intrudes upon his solitude and changes his 
direction. (MF)

***

Eyes are the windows to the soul, it is said, and that 
one eye, grey, with the large black pupil, held his 
attention as no other could. In the eye he glimpsed 
eternity. He lowered his gaze.

There were only two things on the table in front of him: 
a dish-towel and the envelope. The envelope had only one 
word on it: Vincent. It was scrawled in her inimitable 
style. A shudder went through him and his gaze rose 
again, to contemplate the grey eye with its large black 
pupil.

It wouldn't be so hard, Vincent thought, it wouldn't be 
difficult at all. This vaguely surprised him. He had 
thought it would be otherwise. Vincent grinned 
ironically, what would life be, if not for its 
surprises?

His arm grew tired, for the gun was heavy. Reluctantly, 
he turned the barrel away, causing the grey eye to 
disappear, and lowered the gun to the table, to rest on 
the dish-towel.

As he shook out his tired arm, Vincent looked around the 
room, then out, through the window, to the apartment 
building opposite. Empty, all empty. Faceless people, 
big city, all empty and devoid of all that mattered. It 
would be a relief, he decided.

His hand didn't tremble at all as he reached into his 
shirt pocket and pulled out his bullet. Not any bullet, 
but 'his' bullet. It gleamed in the afternoon light 
which streamed through the now uncurtained window. So 
beautiful. Such utility. He marveled at the simplicity, 
the stark majesty of it.

The revolver, with that heady aroma of gun oil, was in 
his hand. Practiced fingers unlatched the cylinder and 
swung it open. Practiced fingers picked up the bullet 
and slid it into the chamber. Practiced fingers spun the 
cylinder, until the loaded chamber was in the proper 
position, then swung it closed. The sharp click sounded 
very loud in the quiet room.

A last look around? Why? There was nothing to see 
anyway. All that he needed to see he could see in his 
mind's eye. The cold grey eye as it rose and...

The knock on the door startled him. What to do? His mind 
blanked. The knock was repeated, a little louder, a 
little faster.

"Damn!" Why couldn't he think, make a decision? Shoot or 
answer the door. The knock came again, insistent.

"Damn!" Vincent lowered the gun to the table and 
carefully covered it with the dish-towel. He stood as 
once again the visitor rapped upon the door.

"Coming," he called, irritated by the insistence of the 
rapping, by the delay this person was causing. He swung 
the door open quickly, catching the woman by surprise, 
her fist poised to knock yet again.

The woman was startled by the sudden opening of the door 
and the way he thrust his face forward. He could see it 
in her eyes. Her expression, at first determined, seemed 
tentative now. Her whole posture spoke of indecision.

"Yes?" His voice was harsh. Best to send her on her way 
at once, to get back to what was important.

Her face composed itself before his eyes. She 
straightened perceptibly. A bright smile appeared, as if 
by magic and he had a sinking feeling.

"I've come to talk with you about..."

"You're a JW, right?" Vincent interrupted her.

The woman's smile dimmed then brightened again, her eyes 
laughing. "I guess you could say that. My name is Janet 
and my last name..."

"Starts with a W," he finished with her. "Well, Janet W. 
what is it you want?" He wasn't about to let her get 
started with anything.

"To come in," she replied and pushed her way past 
Vincent, who was caught off guard and too surprised to 
stop her. He followed behind her as she made her way 
past the kitchen and into the living room of his small 
apartment.

"Ah, a minimalist," she commented, looking around at the 
bare walls and lack of furnishings. There was only the 
table and one chair in the room. "Very Spartan. I like 
that." She looked up at him. "Shows a strength of 
character." She nodded as if confirming something to 
herself. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Yes." It was too late. She was lowering herself to the 
floor even as he spoke and came to a rest in a cross-
legged position. 

"You're not being much of a host," she complained. 
Vincent gaped at her. "You haven't offered me anything. 
I'd like a glass of water, please."

Stunned, Vincent turned and made his way into the 
kitchen. He needed time to think. He'd never dealt with 
such a situation before. He gathered his thoughts while 
allowing the water to run, testing its temperature with 
his finger.

This Janet was a reasonably good looking woman, mid-
thirties he guessed, no longer slim, but with a nice 
enough figure. Her longish brown hair was pulled back 
and clipped with a barrette at the back of her head, 
exposing her face. It was a good face, he thought as he 
allowed the glass to fill with cold water, nothing 
extra-ordinary about it, but a good face with a nice 
smile.

Vincent walked back to the living room and handed her 
the glass. She hadn't moved. He glanced over to the 
table, to the envelope and the dish-towel, and grimaced. 
What was he doing? He'd have to get her out of here.

He looked back at her, but Janet was sipping at the 
water, making no attempt to make known her purpose in 
appearing at his door. He'd have to prompt her, he 
decided.

"So, you live here and just decided to go visiting?" he 
asked, forcing a smile to his face.

"No, I don't live here," she replied.

Vincent was surprised. It was cold outside. He took 
another look at her. She was wearing a flannel shirt, 
jeans and runners. That was it. Not even socks. How he'd 
ever thought she could be a JW was beyond him. What 
*was* she doing here?

"You said you wanted to talk to me. Talk, then."

"Please sit down. I'm getting a sore neck looking up at 
you." She smiled at him again and he cursed her under 
his breath. Nevertheless, he sat, uncomfortably, on the 
floor. She was much more limber than he. He'd have to 
exercise more, he thought, then almost laughed out loud 
at the incongruity of that last thought.

"Okay. I'm sitting. Talk."

Janet nodded, yet made no attempt to begin. Vincent 
waited, knowing, somehow, that she was gathering her 
thoughts, putting them in order. Finally she looked up 
at him. He waited, expectant.

"Sometimes I wonder." There was a hint of desolation in 
her voice.

Vincent waited, but there seemed to be nothing more 
coming. He was struck by the unreality of the situation 
and shook his head. He returned his gaze to Janet and 
noticed that her eyes had that far away look in them.

"Sometimes I wonder if I am still pretty."

Vincent made no attempt to respond. She wasn't really 
talking to him at all. He somehow doubted that she was 
even aware that he was in the room. He felt like he was 
a character in "The Twilight Zone".

"He doesn't say it much anymore, and I'm often tired by 
the time we have time to ourselves. Oh, I can look in 
the mirror, but I don't think I'm the woman I see there. 
All I see now are the labels." Janet fell silent once 
again.

Labels he could understand and his expression softened. 
He was 'the manager', 'the boss', 'the husband', yet 
somehow 'Vincent' had disappeared in the eyes of the 
others. He wondered how that had happened. He suspected 
that the same had happened to her. This didn't explain 
why she was here, of course, but it seemed to explain 
something.

Vincent wondered who the 'he' was. Boyfriend? Husband? 
The plain gold ring on her finger gave him his answer. 
Had he, too, been like that? No. He had been devoted to 
Leslie, and that was one of the reasons that the 
acrimony and venom in the letter had hurt so badly. He 
didn't understand how she could see him like that.

It didn't matter. The pain and the anguish would soon be 
gone. Nothing would matter.

Vincent became aware that Janet was watching him, 
reading his expression. She sighed at something only she 
knew. Again she looked tentative, then once again 
composed as she made whatever decision it was that 
needed making. An interesting woman.

Vincent blinked. She was undoing the buttons on the 
flannel shirt. He swallowed convulsively, unable to take 
his eyes from her fingers as they deftly undid each 
button in turn.

"Sometimes I wonder," she began again and he raised his 
eyes to hers. "Sometimes I wonder if they are too small, 
if they are not beautiful." She looked down at her 
breasts as her hands, with their long, slender, fingers 
opened the shirt and bared them to her eyes and his. "I 
see how men look at women with larger breasts, how their 
eyes trace the curves, then I think of my own and 
sometimes I wonder." There was a wistfulness, bordering 
on pain, in her voice which caused Vincent to react.

Why not do a final kindness? It would soon make no 
difference to him, yet it might make a difference to 
her.

"They're beautiful," he affirmed, his voice husky, "and 
they aren't too small." He was relieved as his voice 
regained its normal timber after the first few words.

Janet looked up at him and smiled and he felt a sudden 
lurch in his stomach. There was something different in 
her smile, something which he couldn't place.

"And the nipples?" she asked, delicately stroking them 
until they stood proud. Her head was bowed and she 
looked coyly up at him from under her eyebrows. 

Vincent had to smile. "Your nipples are beautiful, too." 
And they were. She had lovely breasts, and lovely 
nipples, and the sight of them, of her stroking them, 
was exciting him.

"And the skin? It isn't too rough? I know I don't have 
the complexion which once I did." 

There was no way he could answer that without touching 
her and he knew it, and she knew that he knew it. It was 
an invitation. Would he accept it, he wondered. Distress 
appeared on her face and he knew he would. She had 
risked too much for him to be able to deny her without 
hurting her, and hurting as he was, it was unbearable to 
think of hurting another.

Vincent moved forward and gently stroked her skin, 
lightly caressed the undersides of her breasts, circled 
the nipples stroked them as well. She was breathing 
through her mouth, now, he noted, and her respirations 
were fast and shallow. He reached around her head and 
began to unclasp her barrette. As he did so, he could 
feel her fingers unbuttoning his shirt.

The barrette fell to the floor and his hands moved 
through the silky hair, enjoying the feel of it as it 
slipped through his fingers, while her fingers lightly 
stroked his chest and tweaked his nipples. He was 
breathing faster, now, too, he noted.

Vincent lowered his head to hers and breathed in. There 
was a strange fragrance caught in her hair which puzzled 
him. Then he knew - she had been baking. He was in the 
'twilight zone' for sure. Then her hands were on his 
face, drawing him down, bringing his mouth to hers, her 
tongue darting out to taste his lips before they joined 
with hers.

Then they were together, exploring each other with 
fierce abandon, before breaking apart breathlessly, to 
rid themselves of their remaining clothes.

Vincent looked down at Janet's naked body and shook his 
head in wonderment. "You are truly beautiful," he told 
her, knowing that she had to hear this, hear the words, 
though his expression surely conveyed that to her.

She was beautiful and she was ready. His fingers 
discovered this as they sought out her moist center. 
Those long, slim fingers found his hardness and traced 
his outline before grasping him, pulling him to her, 
drawing him between her legs...

She hesitated and his eyes sought hers. The eyes 
mirrored the action. Something was wrong. Then the 
hesitation was replaced with resigned determination and 
Vincent laughed out loud. He knew.

"I'll be right back," he told her. The relief and 
gratitude in her eyes as he returned, unrolling the 
condom over his hardness, told him that he had been 
right. He also carried with him his silk robe. He didn't 
want her - or him - to get carpet burn.

Now there was no more hesitation. She pulled him forward 
and positioned him at her entrance. Her heels at his 
buttocks urged him onwards and he obeyed. Together they 
gasped out their pleasure.

His excitement burned like a hot coal through his mind 
as he slicked in and out of her, breathing tender 
endearments into her ear as he did so. Then he could no 
longer concentrate and his body went rigid as he drove 
into her hard, once, and again, and again...

His senses returned and he took his weight off of her 
and carefully pulled out, ensuring that the condom came 
with him. Then he began kissing her breasts and touching 
her sex, stroking and caressing, playing her body like a 
musical instrument, bringing to her the pleasure which 
she had brought to him, glorying in his ability to 
please her.

Janet's breath came in gasps, then she, too, went rigid, 
raising her hips from the floor before relaxing with a 
long sigh. Vincent continued to caress her as she slowly 
came down. Her eyes opened and she smiled up at him.

Her smile faded. She looked about wildly, grabbed his 
watch from the floor and gasped. "Is that the time? I 
have to go."

With a bemused look on his face, Vincent watched Janet 
dress and replace her barrette. It was hard to believe 
that just moments ago she had been moaning, rocking her 
hips and urging him on to greater and greater speed as 
he made love to her. Now she was all business again - in 
that strange way of hers.

His bemused look turned to one of consternation as Janet 
walked over to the table, removed the dish-towel and 
picked up his gun. She pointed it in his general 
direction, though not directly at him.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" she asked him.

"Yes, very much" he answered cautiously, wondering what 
was coming next.

Janet studied the revolver for a moment, then fumbled it 
open. She ejected the single bullet and returned the gun 
to the table. Vincent let out a small sigh of relief.

"Yet you are willing to forego the possibilities, 
willing to use this," she held up the bullet, "because 
of this?" She picked up the envelope, then dropped it on 
the floor, a look of disdain on her face. "It doesn't 
make sense to me." 

Vincent stared at her in shocked disbelief. How could 
she know?

"Well, I guess it's your choice." She tossed the bullet 
to him and he caught it by reflex, his eyes never 
leaving hers. His face was stone. She looked at him, her 
confidence fading, a fear coming to her eyes.

"Do me a favour?" she asked. He said nothing and her 
hands began to shake. "If you see me - you don't know 
me." He was silent. "Please?" He didn't move. Then she 
was gone, fairly flying out of his apartment.

Curious, he moved to his window, putting on his robe as 
he went. Sure enough, Janet exited the building and 
crossed to the apartment block opposite his. He nodded. 
It was the only thing that made sense. 

He saw her breath, condensed in the cold air, as she 
turned and glanced back once, and then she was gone. He 
looked to the sky. It had clouded over and it was 
becoming dark out. He moved back from the window and 
waited. Sure enough, a light came on in the apartment 
directly across from his. He sat in his chair and 
watched, not moving.

There she was and, suddenly, there were two children, 
still clothed for the out-of-doors, running to her. She 
picked one up and spun him around, giving him a hug and 
a kiss. The second child got the same treatment.

Vincent waited, still, quiet and unmoving. After a long 
time passed, a man appeared, crossed over to where she 
was working in her kitchen and gave her a perfunctory 
kiss.

Vincent shook his head. The man didn't know what he had. 
He lowered his gaze to the table, to the bullet, ugly 
and stark against the wood. How could he ever have 
thought it beautiful? It was hard and cold. He 
remembered her breasts, soft and warm. It was they which 
were beautiful. 

His nose wrinkled in disgust at the cold metallic smell 
of the gun oil. He remembered the smell of the baking in 
her hair, the smell of her excitement, and sighed. He 
pictured, in his mind, her face, animated, filled with 
joy. He remembered beauty.

Eyes are the windows to the soul, it is said, and her 
eyes were wary, frightened. She was walking, with her 
husband, towards their apartment and he was walking 
away. He envied the man, seeing how she almost melted 
into him, her arm around his waist. They would pass 
within centimeters of each other. 

Would he stop, would he talk to her, would he *tell*? 
Vincent read all that in her eyes in the fraction of a 
second they met before his gaze continued on past, to 
the sign on the corner. He didn't know her, wouldn't 
recognize her. His face betrayed nothing. 

It was the neighbourly thing to do, the least he could 
do.

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 67