One Friday night last April, I was awakened by the sound of a car pulling up out front. After a minute, the engine quit, and in the sudden quiet, the sound of female laughter wafted up to my open second-story bedroom window.
Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus on the glowing digits of my alarm clock. Midnight, exactly. Leaving the light off, I stumbled out of bed and went to the window to see who had disrupted my sleep.
Down below, in the driveway I share with the condo next door, sat a red convertible. Its top was down and the occupants were plainly visible, thanks to the street light at the end of the drive. Making out in the car’s front seats, probably just back from a date, were my next-door neighbor and her burly boyfriend. I didn’t know Tiffany well—I had moved in two months earlier—but she was young, blonde, and blow-your-mind hot. That night she wore a little black dress, the hem of which was riding way up on her gorgeous legs. One of her shoulder straps was askew, and her boyfriend, leaning over from the driver’s seat, had his hand inside her dress. She, in turn, had a hand down the front of his unzipped pants, and the movements of her arm spoke volumes. He moaned as they continued kissing.
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