Contagious

I hear the man next door, the boy really, not much older than me and probably the same age. The space between my room and what must be his is small, the walls thin, there's just not much there. And he's pumping away like his life depends on it. Whether it's the pumping of terrible sex or the blowing up of some kiddie pool I have yet to figure out. But pump, pump, pump away he does as I sit here in my chair, trying to get some shuteye.

And there's Anna, poor thing, over on the bed, hardly getting a wink. She has this thing, this throat thing, that will not give her a moment's peace. We've got her head elevated on two or three pillows which helps some. Still, every minute or two there's a sharp, violent hacking, and though she isn't saying anything I know she must be awake. And she has to listen to this racket next door.

I've half a mind to bang on the wall, but there's no way to do that without disturbing Anna. So I go to the front door, open it and brace the cold, walk down my steps and up my neighbor's, and knock forcefully on his door. I have my answer: Shirtless and sweaty and in boxers and not happy to see me.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, we've waved at each other a couple times. I live next door."

He registers this. "Yeah?"

"Well, I think your bedroom is right next to mine. And I can hear, you know... everything."

"You're listening to—?"

"No. No, I can just hear everything. And I wouldn't care one way or the other," I lied, "but the thing is my girlfriend's over and she's really sick and if you could try to keep it down I would really appreciate it."

He looks at me, dumbstruck, as if nothing has ever been asked of him his whole life. And that, for all I know, is probably the case. He slams the door and I walk back, a little more hateful of the world.

Pumping. Pumping like you wouldn't believe when I get back. Whoever this chick is he's taken his hand off her mouth now, letting her make whatever noises she makes, encouraging them. And I can see now, clearly, that Anna is wide awake.

"What is going on over there?" she asks.

"Just some good old-fashioned American fun." She tries to laugh at this but it comes out so garbled and scratchy that I feel bad for saying anything at all. I get back in my chair and wrap the blanket around me.

"You don't have to spend the night over there, you know."

"I thought you didn't want to infect me."

"I don't know that I'm contagious," she says. I'm about to protest—because, really, I know that if I get in that bed then I'll probably get sick—but she looks so crestfallen, so weary, as if all I had to do is wrap my arms around her and she'll be all better, and then that's the only thing I want to do. So I crawl into bed.

The refractory period on this guy must be nonexistent, because they keep going. Going and going like a goddamn movie. And even though I can tell Anna's finally getting comfortable, getting to a place where she might even get an OK night's sleep, I make a move, and kiss her neck.

"What are you doing?" she asks. I shush her and keep kissing. I slide my fingers up the side of her thigh, and by the time my tongue reaches her mouth my hand is between her legs and I just don't care anymore. I'm going to make a ruckus. I'm going to make a goddamn scene. I'm going to show that bastard what's what. And if I'm sick, then I'm sick.