The New Neighbour – Part 2: Sunday Afternoons

They kept the deal for three Sundays. Jay played nothing before one o'clock, and Simone slept until the city outside had fully woken up and the sun came through the blinds in warm stripes.

On the fourth Sunday, she knocked on his door at half past one with a paper bag of bagels and an apology already prepared.

"I'm sorry," she said, when he opened it. "I was rude about the saxophone. It's wonderful."

"Thank you," said Jay. "I was rude about your humming. It's also wonderful."

"You're mocking me."

"I'm agreeing with you. Come in, the coffee's still warm."

They ate on his sofa, bagels balanced on their knees, the records humming quietly in the background. He pulled out an old saxophone-heavy album he said he had grown up with, and she sat with her feet tucked under her, listening, watching the light move across his face.

"Why did you quit the orchestra?" she asked.

He was quiet for a moment, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the mug. "Because I stopped enjoying it. Every note had to be perfect, and I was tired of being perfect for people who didn't care. I wanted to play for myself again." He glanced at her sideways. "Sounds ridiculous."

"It doesn't. I left a job I was good at for the same reason."

"Did you enjoy it? The law?"

"Not for a long time," Simone said. "I like being useful. I didn't like the rest of it."

He nodded. Then he set his mug down and turned towards her on the sofa, arm along the back of the cushions, not quite touching her.

"Can I ask you something?" Jay said.

"Yes."

"Have you been listening for me? Through the wall?"

Her face went hot. She could have laughed it off. She didn't.

"Yes," she admitted. "Every morning. I hate that I do it."

"Don't hate it," said Jay quietly. "I do it too. I listen for your kettle, and your humming, and whether you've left for work yet."

The room felt suddenly very small. The record crackled and went quiet, the needle reaching the end of the side.

"Jay," Simone said.

"Yes?"

"Are you asking me something?"

"I'm telling you something," he said. "And I'd like to ask. If you want me to."

She looked at him for a long moment: the tangled fringe of hair, the faded T-shirt, the careful steadiness of the hand resting near her shoulder.

"Ask," she said.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Simone. "And if I say stop, you stop."

"Always," said Jay, and kissed her, slow and warm, one hand coming up to rest lightly against her jaw.

She kissed him back. It was easy, and it was not easy at all; it was the feeling of a thin wall finally coming down. When they broke apart, both of them were smiling, a little breathless, a little embarrassed.

"Same time next Sunday?" Jay asked.

"Same time," said Simone. "Only I'll be bringing the bagels."

"And I'll play whatever you want."

"Anything?"

"Anything," he promised. "Even the humming."

She laughed and kissed him again, and did not go back to her own flat until the sun had gone down behind the rooftops and the new neighbourhood had turned gold, then silver, then quiet.