Page 5 of Summer Skate

In just a week, my body has gone from a little bit soft to tan and taut.

There’s something about the water that is particularly conducive to my creativity.

I write for a sprint and then go for a swim, let the ideas space out in my brain, and then I come out of the water, refreshed and energized and so eager to jot everything down that I’m typing while still dripping in my towel.

I take off my bathing suit and admire my tan lines, walk around the top floor of the house naked.

It’s something I’ve never done before, but I’ve gotten into it.

The tan lines make me feel like I’m wearing clothes.

I take a shower, put clothes back on, and write.

I look out the window, examining the top floor of the other house.

There is a little balcony where I always see girls, three or four of them, sitting and chatting, sometimes just one talking on the phone.

But today there is a guy there with one girl and they are naked.

I gasp and fall to the ground. The nakedness is shocking.

In broad daylight! They start to kiss, and I watch as they continue to kiss, and then have sex, on this balcony, right before my eyes.

I start laughing. I have to call someone.

But who would care about this? This is amazing.

I look away. Who am I kidding? I keep watching.

Ten minutes later, I still can’t stop. They are young and their bodies are perfect, with tan lines of their own.

I try to figure out this couple. Is this their first hookup or have they done this before?

I think: I should be writing this down. But what would I even write?

I’m intrigued, mildly jealous. I think about calling Alejandro, but what would that really do for me? The eagerness of these two.

I become obsessed with what is going on at that house.

How many people live there? I strain to try to overhear the guys, the girls on the balcony, the conversation in the driveway.

What do they do each day? I study the pattern of lights in the house.

The main lights seem to be on past midnight every night.

One of the bedrooms has its light on until four in the morning.

Cars pull in after eleven all the time, the headlights crossing my window and bed, then the sound of their feet crunching on gravel, chatter about the night they’ve just had.

One night, the bass of their music startles me awake. It doesn’t sound like a raging party. It sounds like a fucking earthquake.

I get so fed up that I put on jean shorts and a T-shirt and stomp over there, in the dark, using the flashlight on my phone as I walk through the woods.

I walk past three No Trespassing signs up to the house. This time the steps I hear against the gravel are mine. In the driveway, there are two crappy cars, old and beaten up, and one shiny black Ferrari.

I ring the bell. No answer. I knock on the door. No answer. I look through the opaque glass window on the door and can’t see anyone inside. I turn the knob. It’s open. I go in.

There is a pair of Vans near the door. The house is neat, a typical Hamptons rental, with white linen–covered couches and white oversized chairs, blue lamps, rustic wood tables, and bowls of shells everywhere.

I keep walking. It is all very orderly, but for the kitchen table, which is covered in circular tins of chewing tobacco, at least three Ziploc bags filled with weed, and cartons of energy bars.

A vase filled with flowers sits in the center of the table.

Next to the flowers, there is a pitcher of water, ice, and cucumber slices, and next to that, a gun.

Are these people taking care of their bodies, or destroying them? The evidence is conflicting.

I hold my breath. I am tempted to back out, to run away, but I’d like to sleep tonight, and they probably wouldn’t shoot a girl. I’m too cute. Too cute to shoot.

I keep walking, more cautiously now. I continue to follow the music, my ears ringing from the onslaught of sound, and open the screen door to the backyard. Outside, there is one guy. One guy?

I can’t believe it. Not a party. Not hundreds of people.

Just one guy, standing in flip-flops, shirtless, with the gray trim of his boxers sticking out at the waistband of his black mesh shorts.

He is shooting hockey pucks on what appears to be a large square of synthetic ice, firing off pucks at a goal in the distance, while smoking a joint.

He seems out of his mind, but he’s also hitting every single target.

Is he experiencing some kind of psychotic episode?

“HELLO?” I yell, staring at the back of his head, which is unmoving. He is staring at the goal.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn, just keeps taking shots and drags from his joint. I shout a little louder: “EXCUSE ME? EXCUSE ME? HELLO?”

He turns, and he is so blindingly good-looking that my first thought is not about his body, the every single muscle that you can see as he shoots, the blondish-brown hair sticking out of the navy bandana that he’s got wrapped around his head, or even the textbook face.

My first thought is: He must not be in possession of two brain cells to rub together .

He stares at me, as if I’m the one who needs to explain myself.

“THE MUSIC?” I yell. “IT’S A LITTLE LOUD.”

He takes another drag from his joint and goes back to firing. I stomp over to a speaker and spend about five seconds looking for a knob before kicking it over with my foot, then unplugging it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says.

“Are you ?” I demand, hands on hips.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Your neighbor. Your very disturbed neighbor who doesn’t think she should have to stay up all night just because you’re listening to African techno music at a decibel level not suited for the human ear.”

He laughs. “Not suited for the human ear, huh? Go back to the city . . . ” He goes over to the speaker and plugs it back in, turns it on.

He is taking shots again. I stare at him, dumbfounded, and then turn to walk away.

“I’ll tell you what,” I hear him say, as I’m about to walk through the door. I stop. I turn.

He puts his joint down into a plastic cup. “If you can hit that goal, once , I’ll turn the music off, and it’ll be like a fucking library over here.” He offers me his stick. He raises his chin in my direction, holding out the stick. As I stand there, frozen, he looks me up and down.

I walk over, step onto the white square, take the stick from his hands. He puts the puck down.

“You get one chance,” he says.

“Five,” I reply.

He laughs. “ Five? Get out of here.”

“Give me five or I call the police and report a noise violation. I’m sure they’d be fascinated by your kitchen table.” I smile.

“Three,” he says.

“Fine.”

I take a shot, and the puck goes sailing to the left, into a pot of flowers that is about four feet from my side.

He puts another puck down. I am focused.

I am determined to stop the madness. I shoot and miss the puck altogether, then shoot again and it dribbles onto the grass.

My third shot goes in the general direction of the goal but stops significantly short of it.

“Fuck,” I say, and then throw the stick to the ground. He laughs and goes over to the music, turning it up even louder.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath and stomp toward the door.

“Come back and practice your shot again sometime!” he yells after me. “And welcome to the neighborhood!”