Hello Stranger(36)

Had he roofied her? That was the first question that came to mind. Just how terrible was this guy? Was he just a douche, or was he a monster?

I wanted to ask her if she was okay, but I didn’t know her name.

Sue and I always just called her Busty McGee. Which sounds terrible, now that I think about it. But I’m telling you, most of her outfits were very … cleavage-forward. We weren’t noticing something she didn’t want us to notice. Actually, she’d make a great friend for me now, because she was highly recognizable, even without a face. I’d know that chest anywhere.

And I very much admired her confidence. I, who hadn’t bought new bras in so long I couldn’t even tell you how long it had been.

But look, as identifiers went, those were hers. If you needed to mention her to anyone in this building, all you had to say was “the lady with the boobs,” and you’d be set.

Not that you would say that. But you could.

Anyway, I hesitated on her name—and then I made do with “Hey.”

“Hey!” I called, catching up to them. “Are you okay?”

Leaning against the Weasel, she stopped, turned in my direction, and said, “He’s got me.”

At that, Joe un-paused them and they continued on toward her apartment door. Should I stop them? Should I call the police? What would I even say? A fat-shaming jerk is taking a very sexy neighbor of mine back to her apartment—and he might be up to no good?

That wasn’t a 911 call. People got up to no good all the time.

In the end, all I could think to do was shout after them: “Make good choices!”

They kept going—no acknowledgment.

“Be sure to respect each other’s humanity!”

Not even a glance backward.

Then, “Don’t make me hear about this in the elevator in the morning!” As they disappeared into her apartment and left me standing there.

After that, I started noticing Joe coming out of Ms. McGee’s apartment more often. Which made me think they’d started dating. But get this: There were two other single women on our floor—not counting Parker, who I would never count, on principle—and I saw him coming out of their apartments, too, often late at night. The glasses, the floppy hair—and always that bowling jacket. Unmistakable.

What was he doing in all these women’s apartments?

Something about it just bothered me.

Here I was, chastely facing all kinds of recovery and obstacles and time pressures … and there he was, just having his way with the entire building.

I was frantically trying to relearn how to paint. I was staying up late and getting up early and painting back over canvases. I was falling asleep at my own worktable, leaving paint and brushes out to dry and get ruined.

I was hustling like crazy all the damn time—and this guy Joe was just … getting lucky?

I didn’t have time to obsess over what this dude was up to. And yet I was doing it anyway.

“I think he’s a gigolo,” I said to Sue one night, FaceTiming while we both did our dishes. “I see him going in and out of women’s apartments all the time.”

“Multiple women?” Sue asked.

“Multiple women,” I confirmed.

“Then he’s not a gigolo,” Sue declared. “Gigolos are typically kept by one older woman for eye candy and sexual favors.”

I paused, like, Huh. “Why do you know that?”

“If it’s multiple women,” Sue went on, proud to be helpful, “he’s more likely a male prostitute.”

I considered it. “Well, he must be very good. The penthouse apartments in this building aren’t cheap.”

“Maybe that’s what the videos are for. Maybe he’s extorting them so he can live in luxury.”

I sighed. Maybe. “Anything’s possible. People are so terrible.”

“It’s a shame, though. He’s so cute.”

“Is he cute?” I asked.

“You don’t think he’s cute?”

“Sue, I can’t see his face.”

Sue smacked her forehead. “Forgot again.”

“Why can’t you remember this?”

“Let me be your eyes for you. He’s super handsome. That floppy hair. The hipster glasses. Plump lips. Stellar jawline. And he’s very symmetrical.”

She knew that would get me. I always gave extra points for symmetrical. Too many years of art classes.

“And,” Sue went on, “he’s got my favorite kind of teeth. Perfect but not perfect.”

“Like a rabbit.”

“He doesn’t look like a rabbit. I’m telling you, he’s attractive. And he’s got a kind of bad-boy energy. You know—’cause he rides that Vespa.”

“I’m not sure a Vespa creates bad-boy energy.”

“Vespa … Harley Hog … whatever. The point is, he’s good looking.”

“I guess he’d have to be—if he’s thriving as a high-class prostitute.”

“He could just be a playboy, though,” Sue said next, thinking about it.

This was high praise from Sue. “You think he’s a playboy?”

“I mean, who knows? I’m just saying he could just be handsome as a hobby.”