I would come home from work and open the blinds, like I always do. I liked to see the sparkling lights of the city skyline and on clear days, the sky dotted with diamonds.

One day, I just started to notice him--the Boy across the street.

His drapes are always wide open, everything inside his loft apartment in plain view. He must like the light or something. Or maybe he didn't even have drapes, considering how sparse his pad was. But the meager amount of furniture and belongings seemed…manly somehow. There is this sense of a no-nonsense, masculine aura in the fact that he only really had a bed, a tv, a stereo and his drum kit.

So, I'd watch him. I'd fix a quick dinner, pathetically enough usually just something out of a previously frozen box or a take-out container, and then I'd sit on the love seat by the window and observe the Boy.

He looked familiar from the beginning. I thought I recognized his face from somewhere, but I could never place it. Or maybe it's just because I'd been watching him for so long that I feel like I know him personally now.

My favorite was when he practiced his drums. I was never really sure what he did for a living, but I had to assume that he's a musician. The way he played those drums wasn't just for fun. The playing came from within him, like he was born holding those drumsticks. Sometimes he'd play for hours at a time, his long blonde hair flying in all directions, sticking to his forehead in sweaty clumps, his arms all tense and flexed, his face all scrunched up in concentration. He'd get so into it, I could almost hear his playing, despite the plates of glass, drywall and concrete between us.

I knew I was in trouble the day that I took out the binoculars. That's when the habit turned into obsession.

_________

Boy works out. How hot is that?

He brought home the workout kit the other day. The works - the whole huge weight lifting apparatus with a sit-up bar, workout bench and a ton of free weights. It took two monstrous muscle guys twenty minutes to bring all the equipment in.

He always started with a little cardio, jumping rope in the middle of the living room. I had to laugh when he first started. My little sister could kick his ass at jumping rope.

Then he'd do sit-ups, at least five hundred a night, a thousand when he was feeling inspired. Then a round of weights, push-ups, pull-ups, lats, bench presses and bicep curls.

He'd become almost obsessive about it. It was to the point where he spent equal amounts of time working out and playing drums.

I don't know what I liked better - when his golden tanned skin was all dotted and glistening with perspiration or his shower afterwards, when he'd walk out of the steamy bathroom with just a towel around his waist, his chest still damp and shimmering. One thing's for sure - wet Boy is all good.

_________

Boy brought home a date.

You'd think this would be an opportune time for him to finally close the drapes, but no. He left them wide open for me to see.

The first thought that popped into my head was, Boy, you can do so much better.

She was a blonde bombshell…scratch that…bimbo. Typical caked on make-up and too tight for comfort clothing. He definitely had her beat in the natural blondeness area. Her bleached locks looked like they were ready to fall off from so much chemical abuse.

He found his drum stool and placed it by the bed for her to sit on since he didn't have a couch or anything. He poured her a glass of wine, and then he sat on the bed and turned on the TV. I was starting to get bored when she got up from her stool and sat on the bed beside him. Boy was finally going to get some action.

I should have felt sorry for him when things were getting heated and she suddenly stood up and slapped him across the face. After all, it's obvious that he hadn't had any in a long time. But nope…not an ounce of sympathy. All I really felt was…envy?

_________

It just gets better every time I watch him.

I caught him. I caught him in the middle of an act that would probably horrify him to know I had witnessed it, one of those activities better left behind closed doors, drawn blinds and shut mouths.

He was dancing in his living room. Badly.

It didn't matter, though. His enthusiasm definitely made up for his lack of rhythm. That struck me as odd since he's a drummer. You'd think drummers would have natural rhythm, but I guess it didn't translate to the movement of his arms and legs when dancing.

He had his arms out by his side, spread-eagle and sometimes flapping. He was spinning around the room, gyrating to the music and bumping to the beat. I knew the music was cranked up as loud as it could go because I could see his windows vibrating through the binoculars.

If that wasn't entertaining enough, the funny part came when he quickly ran to the door. When he opened it, there was an old lady standing there, wearing one of those puffy housecoats and her hair in rollers. Man, he got it good. A big guy like him cringing against this little old lady's wrath. He turned down the stereo then. But it sure didn't stop him from dancing some more.

_________

Well, it finally happened -that thing that I had been both dreading and anticipating. Boy made eye contact.

It was early in the morning. I had just finished getting dressed for work when I saw him. It was weird that he was up so early since he usually slept until about noon everyday. I was curious, so I stopped on my way out the door to watch him plop down on his bed, reading the Times and drinking a glass of orange juice.

I don't know what was different this time. Maybe because it was daylight and early, heightening his senses somehow.

He looked up at me for a split second. I looked away so fast, my eyes darting to my bowl of soggy cereal that I wasn't sure exactly when he diverted his stare. When I finally looked back up, he was still on his bed, still reading his paper. But as he turned the page, licking his finger and flattening it in front of him, I noticed the corners of his mouth tugging into an almost imperceptible grin.

I didn't have my binoculars, though. Only observing with my hopeful imagination.

_________

Boy hasn't been home for over two months. I guess I was right about him being a musician. Probably on tour or something, performing at dark, dingy clubs or theatres night after night, then cavorting with groupie sluts like that girl he brought home.

I still come home and sit on loveseat with my pathetic TV dinner, hoping that the lights in his apartment would suddenly be on.

I feel strangely lonely with him.

I need a life.

_________

Boy finally came home today. It scared me how relieved I felt to see him.

He opened his door and lugged two huge suitcases inside the apartment, kicking the door behind him. He didn't even bother to put them away, just left them in the foyer. He sorted through his mail, dumping the junk in the garbage under the sink. He turned his back for a few minutes, and I craned my neck to see what he was doing.

Suddenly, he was deliberately, purposefully walking toward the window. I jumped ten feet into the air before I finally got my bearings enough to duck behind the couch. After a few seconds, I peeked and my eyes widened when he looked right at me, a smile so big that I could see his eyes sparkling, even from across the street. He made some sort of signal with his hands, bringing them up to his face, looking through the two circles made by his fingers and his thumb.

I could feel the heat creeping across my cheeks when I figured out what he wanted me to do.

I brought the binoculars up to my face, my heart pounding so hard I could hear the blood in my ears. I adjusted the lenses with shaky fingers, lining up the double vision into one clear image. He was holding up a piece of paper, a note scrawled on it in looping black ink. I mouthed the words as I read.

You know, you can have a closer look without the binoculars. Meet me downstairs for coffee?

I brought the binoculars down from my face and tossed it on the couch. So maybe the Boy wouldn't just be the Boy anymore. But is that what I really want?

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