In the park below my window, around 11:oopm, they show up. I don’t know who they are or why they come here, but there they are like clockwork. They’re not always the same, at least I don’t think so. I’ve never bothered to look until now.

It starts with a pop, like a clap on the back or a cherry bomb. Judging from the scream of protest, I’m going with the latter. I move my blinds to the side and there they are, four of them, gathered around an old red Volvo. One of them is clad only in dark boxers, his tawny skin aglow in the park lamps. He is the one who screamed.

“Shit. Am I bleeding?” he asks one of his friends. From the way he walks back to the Volvo I’m assuming he’s not. He pulls a pair of tight jeans over his legs, wiggling to accomodate his muscular thighs.

Someone starts a boombox and suddenly Michael Jackson is singing at them to “beat it”. The shirtless man is rolling deoderant under his arms, unamused by the antics of his friends.

I press my fingers to the glass, wishing we could touch.