Page 10 of Callan

A quiet chuckle flutters up my throat as I pivot to the table, pick up my phone, go back, and slowly slide the door open before stepping out, lifting my arm, and starting to record.

MACKENZIE

I can’t seethe man’s face, but his perfectly inked washboard ads make me blush.

His skin is smooth and tanned and bears some calligraphic script tattoos.

I can’t read the words because the light isn’t great, and I’d need to bend backward over the handrail to read all the letters.

And who gets a nice tan like this in the middle of winter?

Rich people do.

And vane people do.

And people who have carefully planned their vacations do.

And the Santa dangling from my neighbor’s balcony does.

He struggles to touch the balustrade with the tip of his boot while I let the camera roll and slide my gaze over his body.

The man is hot.

Hot as in, your fingers might suffer third-degree burns if you have touched him hot.

Hot as in, you can’t stop thinking about him if he has laid a finger on you hot.

That explains the drama upstairs, the annoying complications, the screaming match, the angry husband or boyfriend, or whatever else the man upstairs might be.

A silky happy trail makes a beeline for the man’s crotch and belatedly disappears in his red pants.

The crimson cloth makes his bronzed skin pop, and luckily, the dim light on the patio highlights the man’s figure, giving it the perfection it deserves.

His pants sit indecently low, and as I bring my eyes up, I get a flutter in my chest from all that muscular mass encased in his V-shaped torso.

My hand shakes, and my phone camera may be slightly off when a thought spearheads through my head.

Why would a man like him fuck someone else’s wife?

My neighbor’s charm is undeniable, but is it worth the trouble?

The dangling from her balcony, and being shirtless in the middle of the winter with only a pair of baggy red Santa pants on––which, despite a crass lack of sartorial flattery, make him sexy as hell––a buckled wide belt hugging his tight hips, and black combat boots?

The tip of his left boot touches the handrail, and he struggles to maintain his fragile balance.

His chiseled arms relax a bit, and his pecs are only now getting my attention.

The man has an athlete's body, and if I am to guess, he’s not that bad looking in the below-the-waist department, either.

Freezing my butt off, I slowly raise my hand so the camera can catch every patch of skin, and every line that could easily fuel a sculptor’s wet dream.

Sheer mist billows from my lips, and snowflakes big as seagulls plunge from the jet black sky.

I should go back and let the dangling cutie find his way back if that is still his plan.

What is his plan, anyway?

My neighbors upstairs have gone quiet.

---