Alone.

She hates being alone.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wishes someone else were here. She imagines who it would be. The new guy at work, the tall one who's sort of good looking in his own, gawky way. The barista at the coffee shop, young slacker college graduate without a plan. Her cute neighbor who just moved in, who plays guitar at night and sings off key. Faces, bodies, smiles, flash through her mind. Eyes, lips, biceps, chest... She doesn't know who she wants here. Someone who doesn't exist. Her dream man. No, it doesn't have to be him, it could be anyone. Anyone at all. Someone to touch her, skin to feel against her own, the warmth of another body. Anyone so she's not alone.

She hears the faint sound of a guitar.

He strums the strings of the guitar, plays the same chord three times, four, five. His fingers stop without his mind telling them to. He can't feel the music right now. He's been alone so long, he's been wanting companionship for so long that sometimes it comes gushing out of him like a geyser, the music pouring out his fingers across the strings, the songs blurring in his mind, the words overflowing from the well of his soul. But now it won't come. Now he has nothing. He is alone, as he has been for so long, since he lost her all those years ago.

If only he could find someone new. If only a woman would appear who could replace her, who could erase her memory, who could fill that hole inside him. Hell, he'd be happy enough with someone just to fuck. Just a nice, unattached fuck, that closeness, even to a stranger, feeling that release, that ultimate high.

She imagines what the man would be like. How would he seduce her? What would he say? Would he play music for her? Would he write a song just for her? Could he, without knowing her? She wishes she knew a musician. She realizes how sexy she finds a man on stage. What would he smell like? Would he wear expensive cologne, or smell musky when he came down off the stage, out from under the hot lights, sweaty like he just finished working?

She can picture him in her mind, and in her mind, he's her neighbor, her sort of cute, guitar-playing neighbor. She knows he's not the man of her dreams, nearly casts him aside in search of someone more suitable, but at the last minute decides he'll do. She imagines the way his body would move with the music, she imagines the look in his eyes, lust combined with something artistic she cannot define.

She lies back on the bed. In her mind his hands are on her, she can feel his fingers running along her skin, can feel his lips upon her neck.

Lust has awoken within him, and he knows only one way to rid himself of it. He unzips his pants and goes to work, his mind conjuring images of beautiful women. He pictures short skirts, tight blouses, enormous breasts bursting out of lacey bras, long tanned legs ending in high heeled boots or shoes. His hand works up and down, imagining a woman, trying to put a face on her, but only seeing her legs, her ass pushed up into the air as she's bent over a couch, her breasts, her hair hanging around her face, and finally he sees her face, his neighbor, the cute brunette, the perky girl that never says hi but always smiles. He imagines her coming home from work in that hot black skirt and blazer, he loves a woman dressed professionally.

He knows it could never happen in real life. He knows women want a man to woo them, to sweep them off their feet, to build up for weeks and months of dating before finally falling into bed together. But he imagines his fantasy, she smiles, he beckons her into his apartment, then all of a sudden he's bending her over his couch, taking her from behind, just fucking hard and fast.

She imagines him being forceful. Why can't a man just take a woman anymore? She enjoys gentle lovemaking, but every now and then a girl just wants to fuck, too. She wishes she could find a man who could just take her, toss her down on the bed, strip her clothes off of her and fuck her good and hard, give her back her image of a strong man, a man who takes what he wants.

She's always wanted to be taken like that, and her hands roam over her body as she imagines her neighbor walking into her back yard, setting down his guitar and coming straight into her townhouse. She knows what he wants. She's a little bit scared, he's all business. He walks right up to her, presses her against the wall and kisses her hard on the mouth, his tongue and hers meet. She can't resist and kisses him back.

She is almost instantly wet. Her fingers explore between her legs as she imagines him bending her over her couch, lifting her skirt and taking her right in her own living room, slamming her against her couch, pulling her hair, gripping her waist as he fucks her from behind. She sees him tossing her on the floor and mounting her. Hard, almost violent sex. Pure fucking, no lovemaking, nothing gentle, raw animal intercourse.

He's working himself closer to release, picturing her bent over that couch, but something's missing. He imagines flipping her over, tossing her onto the floor and mounting her in the missionary position. Her legs wrap around him, he can see the toned calves, her perfect breasts, her mouth forming an o as he drives into her. This isn't love, it isn't what his ex wanted, it is just a fuck, and somehow she needs it just as badly as he does.

Her fingers are bringing her to the brink, and she can see his face now, can feel him inside her, can hear his breath rushing, see the look in his eyes as she nears her own release.

He works faster, he's right there on the edge, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he sees her breasts bouncing with the force of his thrusts, hears her moaning as she takes him deep inside her.

She feels her orgasm building, her back arches on the bed, her toes curl inside her socks, teeth gritted tightly.

He's going to cum, he can feel it building, picturing her beneath him as he pounds into her, warm and wet around him.

Her entire body shudders as the orgasm rolls over her, her fingers ignore her brains pleas to stop and her unconscious forces the feelings to continue.

He pumps himself faster and harder, feels his seed spurting onto the bedspread. He doesn't care. He finishes himself off, works the last drops out.

She runs her fingers over herself, feeling the shivering pleasure of her own touch, imagining it is the touch of another, wishing he were here right now, but knowing it will never be.

He lets go, feels himself getting limp. He wipes up with a sock, zips up, putting it away.

She tosses her hands over her head in abandon, wishing he were here to take her now.

He cleans up, strolls out onto his patio, lights a cigarette.

She rolls over, lifts herself off the bed. Steps out the sliding glass doors onto her patio to enjoy the cool evening breeze.

He sees her come outside next to him. Embarrassment flares within him. She couldn't possibly know.

She sees movement out of the corner of her eye and her heads spins to see him standing there looking at her as if he knows.

He blushes.

She blushes.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette.

"Hi," she says, smiling.

"Hey."

She turns and hurries back inside, her heart pounding in her chest.

He watches her go, face red as his own, then flicks his cigarette and heads inside as well.

She leans against the sliding glass door, wishing he would come over, praying he knows, praying he can read her thoughts and will come over, wanting him now more than she's ever wanted a man.

He leans against his sliding glass door, wondering how she could know, why she looked at him that way. Could she tell? Should he go next door to talk to her, or was he just imagining the look on her face?

Will he come over?

Should I go?

Or should I go there?

What the hell. He decides to go around back, knock on her sliding glass door, hoping he doesn't scare her, hoping he read her right.

She decides to go next door, right up to the front door and ring the bell. Her mind races, but she's sure she saw something in that look.

He walks around the hedges separating their backyards.

She strolls the length of her apartment and out the front door.

He approaches her sliding glass door.

She rounds the garden and walks right up to his front door.

He knocks.

She knocks.

He waits.

She waits.

He sees nothing through the glass, no movement.

She hears nothing.

He waits a little longer, knocks again.

She waits a little longer, rings the bell.

Still nothing.

No reply.

He doesn't want to leave, but...

Did she imagine everything? She suddenly feels foolish.

Embarrassment wells up within him. He feels his face redden.

She feels stupid. Takes a faltering step back.

He turns to go.

She stops, takes a last, hopeful look at his door.

He glances back one last time.

She walks around the garden out front.

He skirts the shrubs separating their yards.

She wonders if he's still out back, perhaps finishing his cigarette and didn't hear her.

He goes directly inside, turns off the lights, and lays atop his unmade bed.

She peeks out into the back yard, sees his lights out, and goes back inside.

He stares at the ceiling, wishing he could find a woman to replace the one he lost, anyone who could erase her memory.

She wishes she had read him right, wishes he could have been, if not the one, then at least one for now. She wishes she weren't alone.

She hates being alone.