Tall, Dark, and Hot

Monday, June 15th

Yesterday, I watched Tall, Dark, and Hot roll his suitcase up his driveway towards his house, and he didn’t know I was watching him from my bedroom window. He, who we’ll call TDH for short, definitely doesn’t know I watch him from my bedroom window every single day. Except for this past week while he was gone; what a long, lifeless week.

I’m his next-door neighbor, but my house, and my upstairs window, and even I might as well be invisible to TDH. I’m being secretive about his name because, well, I’m a first-rate Peeping Tomette, and I’m not sure if it’s illegal. Probably is. So, let’s keep this between you and me, and he’ll stay anonymous.

My window is in a prime spot. I can’t see into his bathroom or anything; not that I would want to, I’m not a psycho. But I can see into his kitchen downstairs and into his office upstairs. Luckily, for me, this is where TDH spends most of his time, in these two rooms.

In the mornings, I watch him brew coffee (tall, dark, and hot, of course), cook eggs, and sit at the kitchen table and eat. My binoculars tell me they’re scrambled. Oh, right, now you know I have binoculars. I already had them, okay? I didn’t buy them when he moved in last month, like you might think. Anyway, he always eats eggs and sometimes bacon. He eats quickly, tosses his plate in the dishwasher, then heads upstairs with his coffee to his office to work from home. I am not sure what he does for a living, but he talks on the phone a lot and, apparently, travels once a month for work. We’ll fact check that next month.

The reason I’m bringing this up now is because yesterday was a big day for me. I have fallen in love with TDH, and I wrote him a letter telling him so. While he was out of town, I slipped the letter into his mailbox and waited for years (days), unsure when he would be back. Yesterday, after a cab dropped him off at home, I watched him get a stack of mail from his mailbox and take that with his suitcase into the house. My heart had never pounded faster.

I recognize that he is out of my league and out of my age range since I am only 17, but before you freak out, you should know my 18^th birthday is next week, and TDH is not a day over 23 according to my binoculars (and to the internet). The internet also told me what he does for a living, but it was something I don’t understand, so it went in one eye and out the other.

If I were 18 already, I would have “bumped” into him on the street by now, and we would have giggled and fallen madly in love and be inseparable now. Alas, I am not there yet. So, I made a plan to declare my love from afar, anonymously, while I am living like Rapunzel in my parents’ castle during this hot, slow summer. He would be spellbound by my perfectly charming words carefully written on crisp, ballet pink paper that I, of course, would spritz with perfume before slipping it into the matching envelope. I needed the color to stand out from the rest of his mail, so when he read the letter at his kitchen table, where he always reads his mail, I could spot it with my binoculars and watch the hair stand up on his skin and a flicker of excitement light up in his eyes. (They’re really good binoculars). Then, after a week of him wondering, searching for me, and ultimately falling head over heels with the secret admirer letter writer, I would march over to his house, knock on the door, reveal the mystery, and we would embrace on his front doorstep.

After what seemed like eons yesterday, TDH finally sat down at his kitchen table late last night to open his mail. I, naturally, was at the ready. These were his actions and my reactions, in order:

He found the pink letter.

                                                        Here we go.

He smelled it and half-smiled.

                                                        He likes it already!

He checked the envelope front and back for a return address.

                                                        Sorry, you’ll know soon enough.

He opened it.

                                                        I can’t breathe.

He read it and smiled.

                                                        Is he blushing? Is my pulse rate safe?

He put the paper to his mouth and stared forward, thinking.

                                                        DID HE KISS MY LETTER?

He put it back in the envelope, put it in his back pocket, and left the kitchen.

                                               My letter has touched his butt. Am I dead?

Tuesday, June 16th

There’s been a development. Last night, exactly 24 hours from the time TDH read my letter, my parents’ doorbell rang. I may or may not have noticed that in that moment TDH did not seem to be home. In my bedroom I panicked. I ran to the closed door, stubbing my toe on the corner of the dresser on the way, and fell down with my hand over my mouth to muffle the delayed scream that comes after stubbing your toe. I crawled over to the door and pressed my ear to it. I heard mumbling coming from downstairs, then the front door closed. Is he inside? I thought. My hair’s not done, no makeup, this is NOT the day for this.

I cracked open my bedroom door and heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Only one set of footsteps, though, and definitely my mom’s whose feet I’ve heard a million times. She came to my door, asked why I was sitting on the ground. I explained that I had stubbed my toe, she asked if I needed a bandage, no just tell me what is going on!

She handed me a letter. I looked at her, and she just shrugged and walked away.

I closed my bedroom door, still sitting, and leaned my back against it. I noticed the letter was sealed in an envelope, so my mom had not snooped. Good willpower, Mom. There was nothing on it but my first name. He knows my name!

I opened it, and a waft of cologne burned my nostrils. It was white paper with black ink that simply said:

Knock on my door in a week. Let’s have a cup of coffee on the front porch.

P.S. In the meantime, maybe get a new hobby.

If you are wondering: yes. I am dead.