It started in the elevator when I was fifteen. All I knew was the name on her mailbox: I. Jacobs. Her apartment was right across from mine in this tight little corner hallway, and every day that summer when I’d leave to go to work, my door would slam behind me, and seconds later as I walked down the hall to the elevator bay, hers would slam too, my heart would palpitate, my back would sweat, and butterflies would furiously try to break out of the confines of my abdomen. The floors were carpeted, but I could still hear her behind me, those perfect, designer high heeled feet never once missing their mark. She never faltered, never stumbled, never trembled in my presence. She was as confident as a big game poacher. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was the game, and she was intent on playing.

The first few weeks of work were exhilarating. I’d been commissioned by the city to spend the summer creating art ... for money! It was a change of pace from my normal jobs during the school year, and I was looking forward to the possible opportunities that getting paid to produce my art could bring. Just as I got to my door that Friday, I realized I hadn’t checked my mailbox all week. Sighing in the exaggerated way that exasperated teenagers do, I turned around, walked back down the hallway, and pushed the button for the elevator. I had earphones in, and I was picking at a cracked fingernail, so I didn’t immediately notice when the doors slid open, or when I. Jacobs herself glided off the lift. Someone tapped my shoulder, and my head snapped up. I could see her beautiful lips moving, but I couldn’t hear anything. Fumbling, I snatched the buds out of my ears and shook my head.

“Sorry, I guess my music was up too loud. What’d you say?”

“I. Jacobs” smiled down at me, and her eyes looked like they were laughing, but it didn’t seem like she was being cruel. She was definitely amused, and maybe interested. Part of me hoped she was more interested than she should have been, but the other part of me was terrified. What would I do with a woman like that? What could I give a woman like that? She lowered her gaze to something in the palm of her hand. At first, all I could focus on were her eyelashes ... real ones, thick like a baby doll’s, but not unrealistically long. They looked soft.

“I think these belong to you,” she purred in a dulcet tone. I looked down, and there were my keys in the palm of her hand. Holy shit. “They were on the floor of the elevator, and I thought, well ... no one else in the building wears their keys on a chain around their neck,” she explained with a chuckle.

“Oh,” I squeaked out dumbly, frozen to my spot in front of the elevator bay. I didn’t make a move to take the keys from her hand. I couldn’t! I could barely even look her in the eye. I glanced up at her for a second, but I couldn’t figure out how to act like an adult and maintain eye contact, much less take the stupid necklace out of her hand and move on with my life. Frowning for the briefest of seconds before closing her fist around the keys, I. Jacobs set down her briefcase and grocery bag, straightened back up, and took the ends of the chain in each hand. Before I knew what was happening, she was at my back and raising the keys over my head. As they touched my chest, I realized they were warm from being clutched in the palm of her hand, and my head began to ache from how hard my heart was pounding. With deft fingers, she fastened the bar connector on the cheap ball chain and took a step back.

“There,” she said. I willed myself to act right, and so I managed to turn toward her and smile, thanking her with a stupid, single nod while clutching the warm keys that were safely on my person once again. She smiled in return, and I could see the amusement was back in her eyes, and maybe, just maybe, a little too much interest. I. Jacobs smoothed those tapered hands down the front of her pin-striped, tailored suit jacket before bending down to retrieve her belongings. As she straightened up, she gave me a little wink, like a secret between good friends, before turning to walk down our shared hallway. At the last second, I called,

“Hey, my name’s Amy!”

My neighbor stopped at her doorway, transferred both bags to one hand, and pulled out her keys. Before she stuck them in the lock, she turned her head toward me and grinned with real interest this time.

“Isis,” she responded smoothly, before giving me a chin-up complete with a lingering gaze that lasted until the door closed behind her.

Monday rolled around, and nothing changed. I left my apartment, she left her apartment, but it was like I dreamed up Friday’s scenario. I thought maybe Isis was standing a little closer to my back while we waited for the elevator, but we didn’t speak. She did cast a knowing little smile in my direction before she stepped off the elevator and clicked through the lobby. All I was left with was the tantalizing scent of expensive perfume encircling me, and I had to shake it off before I could step out into the real world to catch my bus. Luckily work was a distraction, and I could paint, and sculpt, and create to my heart’s content. The rest of the week went the same way, and by next Friday evening at five o’ clock, I’d sort of given up on Isis being anything more than bedroom fantasy fodder. I left work with a friend, and we talked all the way to the bus stop. After my co-worker had boarded her bus, I rested my head against the bus shelter and watched the people in cars whizzing by. When the lights turned red, I got to hear snippets of conversations, and that was always fascinating. The bus shelter was full of people trying to get home, so I was only vaguely aware when someone very tall sidled up next to me. After a few minutes, the stranger leaned in closer and a honeyed voice was in my ear asking me quietly,

“Do you always ride the bus home?” My breath hitched, and I forced myself to do a slow exhale. Isis Jacobs was standing to my right. I turned my head slowly, and ever twinkling dark brown eyes met my grey-green ones. Her mouth twitched, and she gave me a slow smile, showing off perfect, straight teeth. My heart was pounding, and it sounded like violent ocean waves were breaking one right after the other inside my head. I gave the woman half a grin and shrugged sheepishly. “Of course you do,” she laughed. Again, I shrugged, feeling super self-conscious and not really sure what to say. “You want me to give you a ride?” The question hung in the air between us thickly as I tried to process what she’d just implied. Fifteen I was, stupid I wasn’t. She rested her hard sided briefcase on the cheap wooden slats masquerading as a bench that jutted out from the inner wall of the bus shelter. People began moving closer to the curb, and I could see my bus just two blocks down. With her hand still resting on the case, Isis leaned in close once again. “Tick tock, friendly neighbor.” I averted my gaze from the bus and stared straight ahead at the driver of a red SUV who was screaming into his cell phone while leaning on his horn. I took a deep breath in, puffed up my cheeks, pursed my lips, and released a stream of air.

“Okay,” I told her. We stood together, watching the bus get larger and larger as it drew closer, and then watched everyone in front of and around us stream onto the bus when it ground to a stop. After everyone else had boarded, the driver looked at me questioningly, and I held up my hand and shook my head. He closed the doors and pulled away from the curb, and then my companion picked up her briefcase without a word and stepped to the very edge of the sidewalk with her arm outstretched. Almost immediately, a yellow taxi stopped right in front of her. She opened the back door and turned to me with a gaze I couldn’t look away from. I chewed my bottom lip for a few seconds, and the driver got impatient and started complaining to Isis.

“You getting in or not? Jesus Christ, lady, it’s rush hour!” Totally unruffled, Isis ducked her head down to look at the driver and said something to him I couldn’t make out. The driver raised his eyebrows, looked at me, and then rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything else. When Isis straightened up, she smiled gently at me and beckoned with one finger. Taking a deep breath, I shouldered my bag and walked to where she was standing. Making a grand gesture with one hand for me to enter the cab first, I slid across the backseat and sat with my knees together and my bag in my lap, arms wrapped around it like a shield. Isis followed, shut the door, and the crabby cabby pulled into traffic. The car was filled with a super awkward silence, but luckily the ride didn’t last long. Eight minutes later, I shouldered my bag and got out of the cab while Isis paid the driver, complete with a very large tip. He pulled away, and my neighbor smiled at me still standing on the sidewalk ... a real smile.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said as we walked into the building.

“No problem,” I responded.

We both quietly checked our mailboxes. Not much for me but a bunch of ads, which I stuffed into my shoulder bag. I pretended to be occupied looking at fliers on the bulletin board while Isis thumbed through her stack of envelopes, but I was too curious. I liked the way she flicked each envelope down when she was done, and I really liked the way her gold jewelry glinted in the light when she did it.

“Okay. All done,” Isis said, dropping junk mail into the recycling bin. She turned to smile at me, and it was weird. I almost expected her to take my hand or something, and lead me onto the elevator, but she didn’t. I pushed the button for 20 expecting a quick ride, but the elevator stopped on almost all the parking garage floors to let more tenants on. Isis moved closer to me to make room as the car filled, and my pulse sped up. Her hand touched mine on accident, but rather than pull it away; she left it there. I felt hot ... and it seemed like both of us were breathing way too deeply. People began filtering out around floor 8, but instead of drifting apart, we stayed where we were even after the last tenant said good night and the elevator doors closed. Isis and I rode up from 19 in silence, and I was nervous about what would happen when those doors opened and reality set in. How did this work? Was she going to drag me to her apartment and throw me down and fuck me? Did she want to come to my apartment? All the anxious chatter in my head was stressing me out, and I wanted to scream. Then, the elevator opened up, and Isis stepped out, holding the door for me. I swallowed thickly and pushed off the wall and into the hallway. We walked wordlessly down our little corner hall, and just as I pulled the key out from under my shirt and stuck it in the lock, Isis turned around.

“I thought you were coming over,” she said simply. I froze, and she reached around me to place her hand on top of mine. She was a full head taller than me, plus more with her heels on, and she was pressed right up against my back. Her voice was like an analgesic. “You don’t have to be scared. I won’t rush you into anything. You think I haven’t noticed you paying attention to me these past three weeks? You think me leaving my apartment just after you every day is a coincidence?” She waited to see if I would respond, but I was too busy trying to remember to take a breath. When I didn’t say anything, she continued. “That’s right ... in and out.” Isis chuckled. “You and I both know it’s not a coincidence. You wear your desire on your face for the world to see, and I want so badly to give you what you want. You fascinate me, Amy.” I shuddered, and Isis knew it. She snaked her other arm around my stomach and pulled me closer. She made a point of bringing her mouth close to my ear and breathed, “You can unlock that door if you really want to.” At that moment I forgot to breathe, and I knew I wasn’t going home.

I felt weak, my hand slipped off the doorknob, and I sort of sagged against Isis. Gently, she pulled the key out of the lock, slipped the chain over my head, and slid the keys between my breasts, purposely grazing the skin under my shirt with her fingers. I seriously thought I was going to faint, but I actually managed to follow Isis into her place even though my feet and legs felt pretty weird. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t a carbon copy of my place, that’s for sure. The layout was almost the same as mine. Small one bedroom, with a short, wide, airy hallway that ran parallel to the one between our apartments. Kitchen and living room together, coat closet, linen/storage closet, bathroom along the hall, bedroom at the back.

“Hmph. Looks familiar,” I tried to quip, but it came out sounding lame. Despite my crappy attempt at being funny, Isis laughed as I wandered through her place.

“So, does that mean I don’t have to give you the tour?” she called to me as she poured a drink in her kitchen.

I didn’t answer, but that didn’t seem to bother her. Back in the living room, I took my bag off awkwardly but didn’t put it down. Instead, I sort of clutched the strap in my hand and tried to pretend like I didn’t actually feel weird dropping it on the floor in her pristine apartment. She sipped amber liquid from a pretty glass with little cuts all through the bottom part of it and watched me for a minute.

“I think you know where the closet is,” she said, raising her eyebrows. She motioned toward the hallway with her glass, and I could hear the ice cubes clink. Embarrassed, I blushed and hurried to put my things away. Part of me wanted to hide in the tiny nook and shut the door tightly, but the curious part of me was successfully overpowering the terrified part. I gathered my resolve and closed the closet door. “Sooooo...” I began, as I walked back to the kitchen/living room, “can I have a drink?”