Naked Neighbour

Naked Neighbour

My neighbor is, excuse me, undeniably insane. He lives in the next block, and I can see through his window. The first time I saw him—I blush to think of this!—he was walking about the house, stark naked! I caught a glimpse of a tall sinewy figure, before my gaze wandered down and—alas! I cannot continue.

I encountered him again in the lift. He entered and waved cheerily at me, his Afro of red hair bouncing. “Neighbor!” he exclaimed and made to embrace me. I barely survived the ordeal before he pulled away and told me, “How short you are! I thought you were taller when I saw you peeking through the window!’

I stuttered.

He patted my head. He was as skinny as a bean pole, and would have been scrawny if not for his astounding height. I suppose he caught me staring, for he tugged at the bottom of his shirt. “Like it?” It was cut too low and seemed rather tight, exposing a little . . . too much. “Here, you can have it!” Before I could say anything, the shirt landed in my limp arms.

“Toodles!” He exclaimed and, chest bare, sauntered out.