From my third floor bedroom I have a view of the luxurious gardens and white gazebos of my neighbors’ properties, north and south of my house. We are all considerate, conscious of being sure no lawn mowers are run before 10 a.m. The second house north is only partially visible to me and it matters not as it has been unoccupied for over a year. The owner, an acquaintance of mine, is touring the Far East and left the property with an agent to rent it for six months. The shrubs are trimmed, the grass manicured. It amazes me that it has been vacant so long.
My time is consumed by my business, family, hobbies. Seldom do I take the time to watch the gatherings, hot tub antics out of my window. Today it happens to be raining, not hard, but enough to keep the pool users inside. I guess they don’t like being wet. My eyes are blurry from reading the small numbers in the Wall St. Journal. And trying to make a dent in the Sunday NY times crossword puzzle. I lie down on my bed to just relax and amazingly sleep for two hours. The gardens are empty. No one is about. I feel dirty, hot, need a shower. I shower and shower, let the warmth caress my body. The turning of the knob to cold excites me. I switch back to warm. If I stay much longer I just may wash myself down the drain.
My overly large white terry robe hangs just in my reach from the shower door. Before I even put my foot on the black shack rug, I am 95% dry. From this point I picture a do-nothing day just preparing myself for Monday’s chaos.
I switch on my disc player. Barbra serenades me. Linda Ronstadt envelopes me. I dance with each of them. By the time Linda belts out ‘Blue Bayou’, I am at my window. The sun is hiding behind a weeping willow tree. It’s sad, beautiful, mournful boughs wave in the light breeze. Something is moving under the tree. At first I think it is an animal, maybe a cougar, down from the hills. Neither of my neighbors, nor I, have dogs. I stare long and hard at the spot where I saw something or other. It is gone. The disc changes and Barbra sings, ‘Love Me Tonight.’ The ‘thing’ steps out of the shadows. A lady, a lovely, lady, naked as a skinned cat, gets to me fast. She is voluptuous, firmly endowed. Her blond hair is short, straight, strikingly perfect. My eyes are glued her way. I can barely see the pods in her ears, the iPod in her hand. What can she be listening to, dancing to that makes her smile? I pretend she is dancing with me and Barbra, and enfold her naked body inside my robe. At last she stops. I get the low footstool my former wife tapestried for me from the closet and place it under my window, stand on it and drop my robe.
I whistle to her and watch her search the trees looking for a bird. I whistle again. She looks in my direction but doesn’t see me. Rosemary Clooney is pitching ‘C’mon My House, I’ll give you everything.’ And I picture the lady doing just that–ringing my bell. It is on the verge of ringing when the lady sees me posing in the window. She waves to me, points to her bouncing breasts and poof, she is gone.
I step off my stool, pick up my damp and fall spent on my bed. As I gather my wits and strength together the doorbell rings once, waits a minute and chimes again. No time to dress, I put on the damp robe again and answer the door. My heart quickens, leaps out of my chest. There in an old chenille robe stands the dancing lady. ‘May I come in?’ she asks. I don’t even reply, just open the door with a sweeping bow, and she enters.
I set re-play on my discs, have an absolutely wonderful, thrilling Sunday evening and never once think about Monday.
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