Wild About You

Chapter 1

Veronica

It was definitely by the third week that I started to breathe a little easier. All the boxes had been unpacked and all my stuff had been put away. My work desk was no longer makeshift but a real solid oak desk. I placed all the little decorations I got at Target to make it cozy and fun. My pale pink mousepad with wrist cushion, my matching phone holder, and my dazzling collection of glittery pens made it look like the girliest desk ever. I even managed to assemble my desk chair with little to no swearing. My kitchen was tidy and organized. The entire apartment was everything I never thought I could have but did. It was the perfect place to start over.

Start my entire life over.

Even saying the sentence in my head felt overwhelming for a moment. But I remembered my therapy, and my coping skills, and readjusted my thinking. I'm not starting over; I'm starting from experience. An experience I will never repeat again. No love, no man, is worth reliving the last eighteen months over again. I want to forget everything and pretend it never happened but according to my last shrink, 'that's not healthy.'

Whatever. 

So as I dunk my teabag into my mug, I catch the dwindling sunlight through the front window of my gorgeous new brownstone apartment. I'm three thousand miles away from the worst experience of my life. I sigh in contentment. 

I plop down on my couch and finish watching the rest of RHOBH before nodding off. It's late when I finally wake up. Some Cher hair care infomercial is blaring and it's nearly two-thirty in the morning. I snap off the TV, toss the remote, and stumble into my bedroom. I slide under the blankets and pray that I can get back to sleep. Then just as I'm about to drift off, I hear it. 

A thump on the ceiling. 

And not just a thump, a series of them. I'm roused into wakefulness as the thumping becomes steadier and harder. I stare up at the ceiling as if the maker of the noise will suddenly appear to me. They don't and the thumping continues, steady and consistently. It's not until the noise starts that my brain figures out exactly what the thumping is. 

Oh, oh. 

"Yeeessssss," I hear a woman's muffled voice through the ceiling, accompanying the steady thumping. 

Well, isn't this just grand?

I pull the blankets over my head and try desperately to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, the people upstairs are equally as desperate. The noise continues for nearly half an hour, quieting only for a moment when I assume they are changing positions. But it's not long before 'Thumper' is at it again. I stare up at the ceiling in a weird fascination. It's been six months since I've gotten laid and I'm not gonna lie, I could go for some wild, earth-shattering sex. Thumper sounds like he's got some good stamina. This woman is getting louder. I mean, I assume it's a man and a woman. It could be any two people, I don't judge. 

"Travis!" she shouts then starts to keen loud. Ok, man and woman, and apparently Travis is some kind of sex god. Girlfriend has the single loudest orgasm I have ever personally heard. I have to say, I'm sorta impressed. A few moments later, Travis gets his. Although he is not so much vocal as the thumping sounds more like slamming now. 

Good job Travis. 

A week later I'm not as congratulatory to Travis as I'm getting loud performances nearly every night. Some as early as nine and sometimes it's a loud morning wake up alarm. Girlfriend wailing while Travis pounds away. Believe me, I don't begrudge them their fun but I'm getting super pissed that my sleep is suffering. It's annoying to stare at the cute little antique chandelier getting jolted for a solid half hour, the little crystals chiming and keeping me awake. 

Something has got to give. I don't care how magical Travis' dick is--I need my sleep. 

I try to spot him coming or going during the day but always manage to miss him. I know it's his apartment because my landlady said that I should feel safe living here even though I'm alone because a police officer lives upstairs. 

Eh.

I've had quite a few run-ins with police officers over the last year and while most of them are helpful; the ones I encountered were not. So this statement doesn't exactly put me at ease. Besides the fact, how do you tell any man, 'Hey could you tell that banshee to keep it down?' Plus I want to get a gander at Travis. I want to see exactly who I am dealing with. I'm not gonna lie, I'm curious to see what he looks like. What type of man inspires such vocal recognition? It would be hilarious to me if he was some short little hobgoblin type of guy. I've caught the girlfriend leaving and she is a typical knockout, with long blonde hair, and big fake boobs. The standard Instagram influencer/model that most men drool over. Not that I'm comparing myself. I'm pretty body positive when it comes to self-confidence. The only thing I would change about myself is my height. At five feet tall, I would kill to have just a couple more inches of height. It would be nice not to be mistaken for a middle schooler. My dad, Walter, says that I should be grateful for a youthful face. And I am, really, but I'd just like to have some youthfully long legs as well. 

So for the next week, I play hide and go seek with Travis. Trying to figure out his schedule so I can corner and confront him. All I want to say is 'Hey, can you be considerate of your downstairs neighbor?' I don't care about the weekend, but a two AM Monday night love fest, in stereo, keeps people awake. People being me. I am considering purchasing some noise-canceling headphones. A really good pair that basically shut the world's noise off, but they were pretty expensive the last time I checked Amazon. Besides, why should I have to wear noise-canceling headphones to sleep? I pay good money for this apartment and I should be able to get a good night's sleep without a nightly performance of the Kama Sutra at concert-level volume. 

I finally catch him coming out on week three. I glance up from my work laptop and notice a police car parked out front. I hear a man's voice in the vestibule. I toss off my work headphones and race over to the door. I swing it open and there stands the conductor of the nightly orgasm orchestra. He's nothing to write home about and I almost laugh out loud. You would think the uniform would give me some kind of tingle. But this guy, Travis, is so ordinary-looking.

"Hey," he says in a surprised voice.

"You!" I hiss. 

He raises his eyebrows slowly, his eyes get wide at my tone. He can't be more than five feet eight inches tall, so he's not really intimidating. He has a hooked nose and a weak chin. Good thing he can carry a gun because he looks like a loud fart could scare him. 

"Listen, I've had about enough of you and the orgasm opera singer. You need to tell her to pipe the fuck down, for Christ's sake! It's been three weeks and I think I might have gotten twenty-five minutes of sleep since I moved in!" My voice is loud and echoing in the hallway. 

"Ma'am I'm-" he begins before I cut him off. 

"I understand people have needs and you have a right to do whatever you want in your apartment but isn't there some kind of noise ordinance? I mean the other night she was caterwauling for thirty-five minutes! I don't care how good your dick game is, she needs to pipe the fuck down, I've fucking had it." I finish in an exasperated voice. I cross my arms across my chest and stare at him with my best angry face. He keeps opening and shutting his mouth as if he can't decide what to say to explain himself. I shake my head at him in a 'Well?' type of gesture. 

"Ma'am, I think there has been a little mix up," he says sheepishly, color flooding his cheeks.

"Oh, what? She was being murdered? Who the fuck could tell with all that screaming..."

"No, ma'am," he interrupts, "I mean I don't live here." 

I blink in confusion, my arms dropping to my sides.

"What?" I ask in a bewildered voice, "Aren't you Travis?"

He shakes his head with a chuckle. That's when a deep voice from behind me speaks.

"I'm Travis."