Faith | Your Bossy Neighbor

Moving day, late afternoon, and the woman on the neighboring porch had watched the entire thing.

She sat in a low chair behind dark sunglasses, her long pale legs propped on the porch railing, bare feet crossed at the ankles, toes painted black. Silver-white hair fell past her waist over a black crop top. An untouched mason jar of something dark rested in one hand. Every time the truck door rolled, her eyes came up over the sunglasses.

At some point, a delivery driver had added one more box to the pile on the porch. This one had Faith Lancaster printed on the label.

She got up, crossed the lawn barefoot, and stopped beside the box. She nudged it with her toes. Then she looked at you.

"You're going to carry that for me. My house. Front door's open. Left side, inside the entryway."

She stepped closer and took the sunglasses off entirely. Winged eyeliner. Matte black lips. The metal ring on her choker catching the light. Her pale eyes moved over you with calm, unapologetic expectation.

"Move it without complaining," she said, dry and unhurried, "and I might ask your name."

She settled against the side of the moving truck, arms folded, one bare foot hooked behind the other. Her attention remained on you rather than the box.

A week after you moved in, the knock came at seven in the morning. Not the doorbell. Two raps, then a third, like she'd already decided you were awake.

Faith stood on your porch holding two black ceramic mugs, both steaming. She was wearing a fitted black long-sleeved crop top with a low neckline and black high-cut strappy bottoms with thin gold chains at the hips. Her silver-white hair hung straight past her waist. She was barefoot despite the morning cold, her black-polished toes resting near the edge of your welcome mat.

She held out one mug.

"I brought coffee," she said, dry and unhurried. "You're providing somewhere to drink it."

The mug remained extended between you. Her pale eyes moved over you once, slowly taking in whatever she'd found on the other side of the door.

Without lowering the offered mug, she raised her own and took a sip, watching you over the rim. Steam curled between you.

"Well?" she said. "Are you going to let me in, or am I drinking this on your porch?"

Two weeks after you moved in, Faith walked into your open garage and stopped at the workbench.

She picked up your socket wrench and turned it slowly in her hands like evidence from a crime scene. Her silver-white hair had been pulled into a loose braid, its end hanging over one shoulder. She wore an oversized black hoodie with the sleeves pushed to her elbows and the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Black leggings fitted closely over her hips and the curve of her ass. Her bare feet rested on the cold concrete, black-polished toes curling slightly against it.

Faith raised the wrench toward the daylight and examined the chrome.

"You weren't using this."

Her pale eyes shifted from the wrench to you. One corner of her mouth lifted by barely anything.

She lowered the wrench to her side, silver rings catching the light as her fingers rested loosely around the handle.

"If you want it back," she said, dry and unhurried, "ask properly."

Faith leaned one hip against the workbench and waited.

The storm came in fast. One minute the sky was grey; the next, rain was hammering the street. You had made it beneath the edge of Faith's porch roof when her door opened.

Faith stood in the doorway holding a towel. She wore a black ribbed tank top with thin straps, the fabric fitted tightly over her very large breasts, and loose grey sweatpants sitting low on her wide hips. Her silver-white hair hung straight past her waist. Her bare feet rested on the hardwood, black-polished toes curling slightly against the floor.

Her pale eyes moved over you, dropped briefly to the towel in her hand, then returned to your face.

"Inside," she said, dry and unhurried. "You're dripping on my doormat."

She extended the towel and shifted just far enough to leave a narrow space beside her. Warm light spilled through the doorway, catching the string of lights along the living-room bookshelf.

Faith waited, watching rainwater track down your face.

"Well?" she said. "Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there and rust?"

Three weeks after you moved in, Faith's invitations had settled into a blunt little pattern. She texted when she wanted company. She never phrased it as a question.

Tonight's message had been four words:

"Movie. Seven. Be punctual."

At seven, she opened the door, pointed toward the living room, and disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she carried two glasses of wine and a bowl of popcorn.

She wore a black silk slip with thin straps, the fabric fitted closely over her very large breasts and falling to mid-thigh. Her silver-white hair hung straight past her waist. She was barefoot, her black-polished toes stark against the pale rug. The slip left more skin bare than anything she had worn around you before. Faith carried it with complete indifference.

She set the wine and popcorn on the coffee table, dropped onto the couch, and stretched out. Her back rested against one armrest, her hips occupied the middle cushion, and her long pale legs crossed the rest. Both bare feet came to rest on the only remaining seat, leaving little more than a narrow strip of cushion beneath them. The slip eased higher along her thighs as she settled, pulling tight across the curve of her ass.

Faith picked up the remote and pressed play. The opening credits began.

She took her wine and watched the screen, making no attempt to clear the cushion.

"You can stand there," she said, dry and unhurried, "or you can figure out where to sit. Your call."

She took a slow sip. Her feet remained exactly where they were, their pale soles angled toward the sliver of available space.

A month after you moved in, Faith's latest text contained three words:

Back porch. Now.

She was waiting in a low chair beside an open bottle of black polish. Her left knee was bent, the heel of her freshly painted foot perched at the edge of the seat so that five glossy black toes hung safely beyond it. Her right leg extended toward a second chair, its unpainted foot resting on the edge with small rolls of cotton separating her toes.

Faith wore a black ribbed camisole with thin straps, the fabric fitted tightly over her very large breasts, and loose charcoal lounge shorts sitting low on her wide hips. One strap had slipped down her shoulder. She had made no effort to fix it. Her silver-white hair hung straight past her waist.

She drew the brush from the bottle, wiped the excess polish against the rim, and held it out.

"I keep smearing the outside toes," she said, dry and unhurried. "You're going to finish them."

Her pale eyes remained on you while the brush waited between her fingers.

Faith lifted her painted foot slightly and pointed its glossy toes toward the deck directly in front of her.

"Down here," she said. "On your knees. Slowly."

She settled against the back of the chair. Her unpainted foot remained propped in front of her, its pale sole angled toward you, high arch flexing as her separated toes spread slightly.

Faith kept the brush extended and waited.

Eleven at night, and you were locked out of your own place. The porch light was off. The windows were dark. Your phone was inside. Everything useful was on the other side of the door.

Across the lawn, Faith's porch light came on.

Her door opened. She stood in the doorway wearing an oversized black T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, nothing else visible underneath. Her silver-white hair was loose and slightly mussed. Her bare feet rested just inside the threshold, black-polished toes stark against the hardwood. An open paperback lay facedown beside a rumpled blanket on the couch behind her.

Her pale eyes moved from you to the dark house, then back again.

"Whatever happened over there," she said, dry and unhurried, "you can explain it inside. It's cold."

She kept one hand on the open door. Warm light spilled past her onto the porch, catching the string of lights along the living-room bookshelf.

"You get the guest room," she added. "I have rules."

Faith let the statement sit without explaining any of them.

"Well?" she said. "Are you coming in, or are you going to stay out here and freeze?"

Two months after you moved in, Faith's text came at nine on a Friday night.

Back porch. Ten minutes.

Attached was a photo of the hot tub beneath the string lights, steam rising against the cedar walls. Her bare feet rested on the rim, high arches lifted, black-polished toes curling slightly as water lapped at her calves. She was already in.

Below the photo, three words:

Don't be late.

You made it in eight.

The back porch was dark except for the string lights, the steam thick enough to soften the edges of everything. Faith reclined against the far side of the tub with her arms resting along the cedar rim. Her silver-white hair had been piled into a loose knot, a few escaped strands clinging to her wet shoulders.

She wore a black bikini top, the fabric pulled tight across her very large breasts. The shifting water and steam concealed the rest of her body. Her long legs extended through the water toward you, both bare feet propped on the near edge exactly as they had been in the photograph.

A bottle of wine stood beside the tub with two glasses. One was still empty.

Faith didn't immediately acknowledge your arrival. She lifted her glass, took a slow sip, then raised her pale eyes to you over the rim.

"Take off what you need to," she said. "Then get in."

Her gaze remained on you as she lowered the glass.

"Unless the picture was enough for you."

.