Air undulates over steaming pavement. I zoom in to capture the shimmering heat, but the mirage disappears. Instead, glass rectangles come into focus, all but one curtained off from sun or stuffed with thrumming AC units.
Two more minutes. I pan back to the street. Kids swoop around the ice cream truck tinkling merrily on the corner. Chaos straightens into a line. Birds gather in weed trees hoping for dropped cones.
The camera seizes. I tap the on button.
Damn machine. Put me back a week’s pay, it better not futz out. Not now. I thump the barrel with my fist. The lens eye closes with a whir.
I power back on, shift back to the brick façade. Third floor, second window from the right. The curtain rustles. Right on time. I smile and zoom in.
His hand tosses the hardhat onto the futon. I imagine the hollow thud, the back of my head pushed into those pillows. He moves into sight, framed by the open window. Back to me, he peels off his muscle tee. His skin glistens and all I want is to tongue each sweaty trail. He flexes his arms, every muscle defined.
I lick my lips, and wait. For him to tug off his Levi’s, stretch along the futon, and fall asleep. But he keeps his pose, not moving, a museum-quality bronze. I lean forward, inner thighs damp, but still he does not move. I shake the fucking camera, too late.