Noise Complaint
"She came to complain about his music. He opened the door shirtless. The noise they make together is louder than anything his speakers could produce."
The knock is aggressive.
Three hard raps that rattle the door in its frame. I turn down the music—okay, maybe it was a little loud—and pull open the door.
She's already mid-sentence.
"—completely unacceptable, it's eleven on a Wednesday, some of us have jobs in the morning, and if you don't turn that noise down I swear to God I'll—"
She stops.
I'm shirtless. Just got out of the shower. Towel wrapped around my waist. Water still dripping down my chest.
"You'll what?" I ask.
She blinks. Loses her train of thought. I watch her eyes travel down my body before snapping back to my face.
"I'll... call the police."
"For music at eleven PM?"
"For... for..." She crosses her arms. Tries to regain her composure. "Just turn it down. Please."
I lean against the doorframe. Take a good look at her.
She's maybe fifty, with the tired eyes of someone who's been dealing with too much for too long. But she's beautiful—thick in ways that make my mouth water. Wide hips in yoga pants, heavy breasts in a sleep shirt, dark hair with silver streaks. She's soft and angry and absolutely stunning.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't realize it was that loud. I'm Jack, by the way."
"I know who you are. You moved in three weeks ago. You play that music every night."
"You've been listening?"
Her face flushes. "I can hear it through the walls."
"But you're only complaining now."
"I—" She stops. Realizes she's been caught. "It's louder than usual."
"Or you finally wanted an excuse to knock on my door."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" I don't move from the doorframe. "You could have left a note. Could have complained to the super. Could have done anything except show up at my door at eleven PM in your pajamas."
She looks down at herself. Realizes what she's wearing—sleep shorts, thin shirt, no bra. Her nipples are visible through the fabric. Hard from the cool hallway air.
Or something else.
"I was... I was just..."
"You were curious." I smile. "It's okay. I've been curious too."
"About what?"
"About the woman who watches me through her window when I come home from the gym." I push off the doorframe. Step toward her. "About the woman who opens her blinds when I'm on my balcony. About the woman who's been thinking about me just as much as I've been thinking about her."
"I haven't—"
"Don't lie." I'm close now. Close enough to see her pulse jumping in her throat. "You're here because you wanted to see me. And now you have."
"I should go."
"You should." I don't move. "Are you going to?"
She kisses me first.
Hard and angry, like she's punishing both of us for this. Her hands find my chest, push against me, then grip and pull. She tastes like wine and frustration.
"This is insane," she gasps when we break apart.
"Completely."
"I'm old enough to be your mother."
"I don't care."
"I don't even know you."
"Then let's fix that." I pull her inside. Kick the door closed. "What's your name?"
"Margaret." She's against the wall now, my body pressing into hers. "Everyone calls me Maggie."
"Nice to meet you, Maggie." I kiss her neck. "I'm going to make you scream louder than any music you've ever complained about."
"That's—oh God—"
I've found the spot below her ear. She melts against me.
"Still want me to turn it down?"
"Fuck no."
We don't make it to the bedroom.
I lift her onto the kitchen counter—she's heavy, probably two-seventy, but I've got her—and she wraps her legs around me. Her sleep shorts come off with one tug. She's not wearing underwear.
"You came here prepared," I observe.
"Shut up." She pulls my towel off. "Shut up and fuck me."
I slide two fingers inside her first. She's soaking. Her head falls back against the cabinet.
"Oh fuck—"
"How long has it been?"
"Three years." She grabs my wrist. "Three years since my husband left. Three years of nothing."
"And you've been listening to my music every night?"
"Every—God—every night."
I add a third finger. Work her clit with my thumb. She comes in under a minute—three years of frustration pouring out in a scream that definitely travels through the walls.
"That was one," I tell her. "I owe you about a hundred more for all the nights you couldn't sleep."
"Just—please—inside me—"
I push into her.
She's tight.
Tighter than I expected. Wet and hot and gripping me like she's afraid I'll disappear. I grab her hips and thrust deep.
"Yes—" She clings to me. "Don't stop—"
"Tell me what you've been imagining."
"What?"
"Every night. Lying in bed. Listening to my music." I thrust harder. "What were you imagining?"
"This—fuck—exactly this—"
"Tell me."
"I imagined you knocking on my door. Imagined you pushing your way in. Imagined you taking me against the wall, on the floor, anywhere—" She moans. "Imagined you fucking me until I forgot what loneliness felt like."
"And now?"
"Now I can't remember." She pulls me closer. "Now all I feel is you."
I fuck her on the counter until she comes again. Then I carry her to the couch and fuck her there. Then to the bedroom, where I spend an hour learning every inch of her body.
At 2 AM, we're both exhausted.
She's lying in my bed, covered in sweat, looking more relaxed than I've ever seen her. I'm next to her, tracing patterns on her soft belly.
"I should go back to my place," she murmurs.
"You could stay."
"What would the neighbors think?"
I laugh. She laughs. It breaks something between us—the tension, the anger, the pretense.
"I'm sorry about the music," I say.
"Don't be." She rolls toward me. "Play it louder. Give me an excuse to come over."
"You don't need an excuse."
"Then give me a reason."
I kiss her. Pull her on top of me. She's heavy and warm and perfect.
"How's this for a reason?"
She sinks down onto me. We both groan.
"That'll do," she breathes. "That'll definitely do."
The music plays every night after that.
But the neighbors stop complaining. Because the sounds coming from my apartment now aren't just music—they're Maggie, screaming my name, making more noise than any speaker ever could.
If anyone has a problem with it, they haven't knocked.
Then again, if they did, I might not hear them.
I'm usually pretty busy.