Justine

From the new memoir (in progress)

I used to watch her singing to her chickens in the backyard.

Before I made the move, Rich had told me I’d like the neighbor.  My tastes aren’t complicated.  I like sex kitten.  I like Marilyn Monroe.  Blonde hair, big tits and curves, an ass you can eat lunch off of.  I vowed to never date black-haired girls again.  They don’t have souls.

It killed me watching Justine.  I was on a yearlong dry spell.  I have this thing about upgrading.  After Darcy, I had plenty of chances to sleep with girls, but it would’ve been a step down, a demotion.  No, I had to tow the line, at least break even, and there weren’t a lot of girls who’d do that.  Justine would.  Problem was, best I could tell she was just another dopey girl, a partier, a determination I based on her dopey, saggy panted, sideways-hat-wearing, wispy mustachioed boyfriend Rich and I referred to as “putz boy.”

Justine’s shower was directly across from our kitchen, so we could see her shower.  It became a nightly ritual.  I’d be writing in my room and Rich would call out.

“The neighbor’s showering,” he’d say.

And I’d loiter at our sink, rewashing the same dish seven times, watching her windows fog up. You couldn’t see much, a flash of flesh, some blonde hair.  Once, I thought I saw nipple, but it could’ve been flowers or something on her shower curtain.

After I moved in, I’d been on the lookout for the blonde next door.  No one was ever home, seemed like.  I’d watch those damn chickens roaming the backyard and squawking.  Once I saw a blonde girl in the back.  She had tattoos, and from a distance she looked OK.  Nothing to get too excited about.  But that turned out to be some hippy girl who didn’t shave her armpits, who was just a friend.

I remember clearly the first time I saw Justine.  I knew right then I'd be with her for the rest of my life, that ol' spotlight shining down on her and her alone.  I had come out for a smoke and could see her over the wood fence.  She was in her backyard, feeding her chickens in the middle of the afternoon, singing to them.  She was wearing a red dress.  Who wears a red dress and sings to her chickens in the middle of the afternoon?  She was drop-dead gorgeous.