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But when I saw the way she played piano last night— lingerie, half-tied robe, a slow note stretched to breaking— I thought:

“This is exactly the kind of woman Anita Cruz-Desai writes about.”

I tried to get her name. From the front desk. Her mailbox. A floating piece of mail addressed to “Current Resident.” I even did a reverse image search on her window.

Nothing. Ghost in silk.

Should I just make lasagna and knock?

What if she’s vegan? What if she’s lactose-intolerant?

But babe... She watched me eat a strawberry with whipped cream wedged between my cleavage. I used my chest as the delivery system. That’s got to mean something.

And I swear I saw her lick melted chocolate off her own chest the other night.

I just can’t tell if it was dark chocolate... or if I’m losing my mind.

I moved in to spite him.

One month. That was the plan.

Enjoy the view. Sell the suite. Flip the pain into profit.

But then she showed up.

Penthouse across the way. Windows wide open. A different outfit every night, somehow less each time.

7PM sharp: She plays the piano in lingerie. Like it’s a ritual. Like she knows I’ll be watching.

At first, I thought she was bored. Now?

I think she’s trying to ruin me.

And babe—

She was watching me.

I was eating a strawberry. That was it. Nothing else. But she didn’t blink.

So I took the whole tub out. Set it beside me like I was doing it for me. But really? I wanted her to stare.

She did.

So I took the whipped cream out too. Popped the lid. Swirled it on top like I wasn’t shaking.

She still didn’t move.

I dipped the strawberry. Brought it to my lips. Ate it slow.

Slower than I meant to.

She stayed frozen. Except her fingers twitched once — just once — when the cream hit my bottom lip.

And then I knew. She wasn’t watching. She was willing me.

To take one more. To lick it this time. To drop the act and call her bluff.

I didn’t.

But I was so tempted.