A hot mug of Sumatra, black, with my two poached eggs on 5 seed whole wheat toast I sit and wait. I arrange it carefully so everything is at hand at my dining room table. My curtains open and napkin perfectly arranged for any spillage.
It’s been 2 months and 27 days. That first day I was arranging myself to peruse the headlines when as I went to sip my first taste of coffee, she appeared. I looked around to see if I was dreaming or if there were hidden cameras set up since breakfast the day before. No, I was still in the fourth floor walkup I have lived in for the last 3 years. Across the alley and through the corresponding window of the building next to mine was a fluffy vixen. Boxes stacked 3 and 4 high, she floated around her apartment moving something here and adjusting something there. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.  She had curly, completely frizzed out hair stuck in lopsided pigtails. Not brown or blond, but such a mixture of both I wanted to see if they would separate by running my hands through it. She was wearing what I refer to as her uniform. A pink frayed tank top with a white sports bra that straps never match, and a ridiculous pair of old soccer shorts that when she bent over and gave me the best view of a luscious full bottom, I spilt coffee over my eggs. Eventually I started breathing, but soon forgot that as well when she put in her ear buds and started to dance. That first morning I was stunned into voyeurism.

He’s watching me again. And somehow I am so ok with that.  He is like Clark Kent.  I wonder if he owns a cape. If he does, it’s probably hanging up all ironed and starched next to his 5 grey suits. The man can wear a suit. He even has a vest and matching kerchief in his jacket pocket. Damn kerchiefs turn me into mush.
I just moved into the best apartment in the world. It’s the perfect size for just me. Large enough for me to stretch out and have fun but small enough I can clean it in less than two hours from top to bottom. The view is what sold me. Not the one from the front windows of the street and storefronts. No the view I am talking about is on the side facing the alley and Mr. Coffee guy. When I walked through the first time with the realtor I was thinking, "should I get these cool digs, or the ones above the bakery 6 blocks over?" Then I checked out the alley and looked up. He was standing in his apartment across the alley taking off his suit jacket and stretching out his shoulders. The realtor and I stood there fanning each other as we watched him take off his tie and unbutton the first two of his starched shirt. I signed the contract about 30 seconds later, who needs a bakery when you have eye candy?
Some people are runners. Some like a good power walk or Pilates to get their day going. I love to dance. I’m not saying I’m good, I just love it. I have a spot I open up in the living room free of all distractions and obstacles. I also set up 4 different 30 minute song sets with the most grooving girl power songs I could find. Then, I dance as hard and free as my body allows me! It opens my mind so I can think for the rest of the day. I love to lose myself to the rhythm. The new place is perfect for my dancing too. I don’t have to worry about waking my neighbors because I am over the 3rd floor maintenance room and it has just enough room for my couch, chair and cocktail table. I can easily move that in the morning and viola dance floor central.
Day two as I arranged the sections of my paper blowing on my too hot caffeine boost, she appeared again. Less Boxes more hips. I didn’t even know what or if I ate anything that day. Temper frayed on day three, as all I could think of was that she still hadn’t put up curtains. I was determined not to be distracted by her bouncing curls and bobbing shoulders. Coffee, toast, and determination became my watch words. Yet, as soon as she came into view, my eyes wandered like magnets away from the Seahawks stats, to the twinkle of her belly button ring causing me to choke on my eggs. My entire routine was completely out of whack.  And why? Because this girl couldn’t exercise in a sweat suit and oversized tee shirt like a normal person.
I noticed him watching me a couple of days after I moved in. He sits there like he is reading his paper and drinking his coffee and watches me dance. I am good looking in a fluffy sister kind of way, but to be honest I haven’t ever had a guy so entranced that he spills his coffee on his eggs. He doesn’t seem to eat much, and I don’t think that he can really read the paper upside down. One day I was too obvious while I was watching him watch me, and he hid behind his coffee cup. Well as much as a 6 foot man can hide behind a 12 oz mug. It took everything I had not to wink and do a hip thrust.

After the first two weeks I finally gave up. I am a weak man. So what if I get to work a bit late or drive my assistant crazy enough to quit for a bite of her bagel. It’s worth it. She is worth it.

I love having his attention. He is nothing like me. All his furniture matches. His black leather couches with black wood and black granite in the kitchen, and his black coffee pot in the middle of his counter. He has family photos, not that I can see what they are but they are lined up in straight row in yes you guessed, black picture frames. The only thing that is different is his coffee mugs. For some reason his black and grey obsession ends with his caffeine. Maybe it’s his inner rebel. All his coffee mugs are those cartoon ones with stupid comics on them. You know the ones “I cuss, you cuss, we all cuss for asparagus.”

My paper is the perfect camouflage and after about five minutes I can drop the façade and just bask. I am always tempted to turn on the radio and try and figure out what station she has on. At first I thought it was a routine she was practicing. She always starts arms out wide stretched like she is reaching towards the far walls. Then, with a deep breath I feel 20 feet over and two brick walls apart, she starts to move her hips. At first she moves slowly as if she is getting used to the rhythm of the morning. She tilts her head one way, then another like she is acknowledging what she is about to do. 30 seconds later any inhibitions are left behind. One song after another with the change of rhythm in her drool inspiring hips, she dances.

I know I’m a sick crazy person, but she is so carefree and beautiful I have to watch. So I have, every morning without fail. Me, Jake Johnson, mister conformity, rational, predictable, 10 year plan, tax lawyer watches and dreams of one day dancing with her.

He is such a mystery to me. As I dance in the mornings and he watches me I always day dream of who he is. Is he a secret government spy who has to live a minimalist existence for the sake of some undercover mission? Or maybe he is a mobster and the colors of his kerchiefs are a signal to his henchmen. Or maybe he is a professional dance critic and he is evaluating me on my hip thrusts. Or, maybe he is something terrible like a tax lawyer and his little peepin’ routine breaks up the monotony of his day. It doesn’t really matter though because when he looks at me like he wants to start nibbling on my toes and keeping going until his reaches my ears I lose my inhibitions.

Once she saw me. I hid behind my mug of coffee and what I assumed was the sports section. She just stared at me for a moment then let the song pounding in her ears take her away again. I felt such a sense of relief that she didn’t stop. When I looked down I realized my paper had been upside down! The next week was one spilled cup of coffee after another. Was she dancing closer to the window? There was this one hip move that I swear when she did it, she looked right at me. I lost my balance and fell right out of the chair. I had to jump up and pretend my chair had freakishly buckled under me. I peeked to see if she had seen my foolishness but she was facing away from me. Thank you for small favors.

I have been trying to come up with some way to get his attention. But, for the first time in my life I can’t seem to find the nerve. Mama always said that opposites attract and I never believed her. I have always gone for carefree messy men and where has that left me? Dancing by myself. If he rejected me it would crush my heart, and how is that for irony! When I look at my coffee and paper guy I feel free. Like I can dance for the world, do anything, be anyone. How a stranger captured my heart like that is crazy. I have always believed in love at first sight and have dreamed for years of finding someone who looks at me like I hung the moon on my belly button ring. I don’t get the creepy peeping tom vibe from him. More like he is in a museum looking at the most wonderful painting. He looks at me like I am the most beautiful woman in the world.
Can you love someone when you don’t even know their name? I know she loves orange and pink from the 3 dozen pillows she has scattered around her love seat and checkered wingback chair. She isn’t much for being neat and tidy but there is a new bouquet of flowers in a mason jar every week on top of her steamer trunk coffee table. And I know that Monday through Friday she gets up early and dances around her living room until sweat drips from her curls over her forehead. When she gets done, she just turns and walks away. It always takes a few minutes for me to get my breath back. Then I sip my cold coffee, throw away my uneaten eggs and toast, and head for work. One day I promise myself I won’t be such a coward. I will walk over and introduce myself. Maybe she likes coffee and toast as well.

As much as he watches me he is worth a glance or a hundred. So strikingly handsome with his short perfectly cut brown wavy hair. He has broad shoulders and strong arms, but without the scary gym rat bulge! And we cannot forget the black frame rectangular glasses that he peeks over when I do the robot. He is completely oblivious to his Clark Kent vibe. I can see a gaggle of women trying to vie for his attention and all he is focused on is the traffic highlights. While lil’ ol' me and my Zumba wanna-be moves get his full attention, at least during breakfast. Maybe one day I can have it for a conversation, or maybe even enough to make a few dozen babies and live happily ever after.

After three months of this, I have developed the most killer abs ever from never missing a morning workout. I have been planning on making a move. My girlfriends at the flower shop where I work keep telling me to get some gumption and open that window and introduce myself. Today is the day. I have secretly been working on a special hip move followed by a running man-cabbage patch combo. It’s stretching my dance prowess to say the least. When I’m done, instead of fleeing to the bathroom to run a cold shower, I am going to open that window and invite him over for some dinner. I even bought a coffee pot in anticipation. I also bought special socks for my running man move. You know the furry ones with the crazy rubber bottoms. The first time I practiced I slipped on the hard wood, but nothing is going to make me look like an idiot in front of my coffee guy today.

This morning wasn’t any different than all the rest. I was ready with my paper, coffee and breakfast hoping that she decided to extend her workout to 35 minutes or maybe open her window and say hello.

It’s a perfect morning for the day of reckoning.  Sun is shining, his eggs look awesome, and I have named today’s music mix “Man catcher!” I stretch out wide, feeling my groove thing flowing and start moving like Jagger. As I prepare for my secret hip thrust combo, my rubbery fuzzy sock finds purchase where it was supposed to move. My legs slip and buckle. Oh man I’m going to fall. All that goes through my mind as I fall back and feel the pain radiating out of my head is, "dang it all, I even made an apple pie of seduction for tonight!"

She started out slowly and I could almost feel her hips moving in my hands when she let loose. Maybe it was something off about the music or she forgot to sweep this week, but about midway through her dance she stuttered. Arms swinging wildly, and a look of shear panic crossed her face as she fell from view. I bolted up from my table upsetting it and splattering everything onto the floor. Waiting for her to get up I made my way to the window. I kept hoping for her to pop up and laugh it off, but nothing. 30 seconds and still nothing, no movement no curls bopping up from the sill. I opened my window and leaned out as far as I could, seeing nothing but her couch. Panic is not an emotion I am familiar with. She still hadn’t gotten up so I decided to take action. I ran as fast as I could down the stairs of my building. I skidded around the front to dash into her buildings door. I couldn’t get buzzed in, because I had no idea what apartment she was in. I rang the super’s button until I got yelled at that he was calling the police. I told him to get an ambulance there as well because one of his residents was injured. He met me at the front about 10 seconds later.

Lying on the floor, one socked because the other one decided to stay where it had stuck, I slip into the black. Help.

How do I describe this?  That I was peeping at his tenant when she fell, and as far as I could tell from my perch she hadn’t gotten up? I lied through my teeth saying as I was eating breakfast, I happened to see one curly haired pink tanked woman fall and she hadn’t recovered. I think he was suspicious of me since I was wearing a suit, half my breakfast and no shoes from my dash out of my place. Nevertheless, he did call an ambulance and we ran up the stairs to the three 4th floor apartments that could have been on my side of the alley. 4C wasn’t answering the pounding on her door. Penelope Wilson it said on the little pink insert next to the doorbell I was ringing incessantly. The Super, realizing who it was, ran back down to get his master keys and let the paramedics in. Hopping on alternating feet I prayed my dancing girl was going to be ok. I didn’t want to be a complete jackass getting her landlord involved in something like she slipped on a sock and just had a bruised knee. Better safe than sorry my grandma always said. My heart was in my throat as the Super was unlocking her door, paramedics with backboards at the ready behind him. As soon as the door opened, I was running, skidding across the wood floor on my golden toe socks with the paramedics running right behind me.

There she was, right under the window fallen in a heap. Blood trickling from the back of her head where she had hit the edge of an over turned chair. I fell down next to her, my hand reaching like slow motion towards her pale skin. The small circles of water dripping on her perfect cheeks were proof of my tears. Medics were trying unsuccessfully to get me to move but she was mine and I was not going to let her go. I could feel her pulse under my fingers. The warmth of her skin was the only thing holding me slightly together. As the paramedics prodded her and moved her onto the backboard her beautiful brown eyelashes finally fluttered open to look directly at me.

Someone is holding me. And they smell like coffee. I always imagined my Clark Kent smelling like coffee. More jostling and poking, my head feels like someone dropped a brick on it. I feel a warm hand on my cheek and I can breathe again. Slowly opening my eyes as I am lifted off my floor, and there he is...his hair mussed, and egg yolk on his kerchief, but it’s him! My heart. He is holding me and smiling at me.
I smile as much as my pounding head can handle.
She smiled and my heart stopped for those few moments in time.
“My coffee guy.” She whispered.
If I hadn’t been leaning completely over her, I wouldn’t have heard it. I smiled and she smiled back at me causing my breath to catch.
With my heart in my throat, I replied, “My dancing girl.”