The funny thing is I have no idea what their names were. They lived across the alley from us for years, and yet we were barely even nodding acquaintances. We were barely even nodding acquaintances and yet she made an effort to put on a show for me.

She kept going around the apartment opening all the windows and blinds and he kept going around closing them. Sometimes he won, sometimes she won. She always opened the window in the bathroom while she was in there; that he couldn't control. On the nights that she won the battle over the bedroom window I got to watch them fuck. If I was really lucky I got to hear them too. For some reason what I found most entertaining was watching her brush her teeth; I loved how vigorous she was about it, the way her frizzy blond hair moved and the way her naked breasts would swing from side to side.

Maybe the show wasn't for my benefit; maybe she didn't care who was watching, as long as somebody was, though the windows weren't situated so that anybody else could see in. Maybe she just had a thing about windows. I certainly wasn't her type. Her boyfriend was very tall, thin, cleancut, black-haired Irish. The young boys I sometimes watched her flirting with in the neighborhood were also thin, cleancut, black-haired Irish. There was another couple who used to visit them for dinner and play cards or Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit after dinner. The guy was tall, muscular, cleancut and blond. They'd always have a little too much to drink, and the women would end up wearing slightly less than they started with. I could hear the hoots of appreciation across the alley as they made a big show of removing some minor item of clothing. I always wondered what the relationship between the couples was - her friend, his friend, mutual friends? How long did they go back?

I especially wondered the time I looked across the alley one weeknight and realized that she and the blond guy were over there by themselves. He was fully dressed. She was wearing a blue, thigh-high, pullover nightshirt. Her hair was wet, and a towel was thrown over the back of the couch. They were talking intensely, leaning in toward each other, gesturing wildy, when suddenly the blond guy jumped up and pulled his shirt off over his head in one quick motion. She lay back and started to pull up her nightshirt, but she only had it as far as her hips when he was on top of her, their hands and mouths all over each other.

That was when my wife started yelling for me to come to bed. I turned around to answer, then turned back to watch some more. They were on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. My view was obstructed, but I could see that she was on all fours, the nightshirt still pulled up around her hips as he knelt behind her and drove into her, slapping her ass and playing with her nipples through the nightshirt as he fucked her. I could hear her whimpering and him grunting and his hand slapping and her telephone ringing and ringing and ringing.

About six months later they split up and she moved out. Whenever I remember that scene I wonder whether she went to live with the blond guy, what happened to the blond guy's girlfriend, whether she knew I was watching, whether she cared, whether that was the first time she'd cheated, and whether her boyfriend ever found out what happened. Not that I remember it often - just times like now, when I'm out of town, late at night, calling home, and the phone keeps ringing.