The building was a pre-war brick walk-up in the East Village, the kind with fire escapes that were technically illegal to sit on but that everyone used as balconies in July. I’d lived there for a year — fourth floor, facing the alley, a view of brick walls and air conditioning units — and I’d watched Sloane climb her fire escape every night at 11 PM to smoke.
Sloane was my neighbor. Twenty-nine. She lived in 4B, I lived in 4C, and our bedroom windows were separated by six feet of brick and a lifetime of bad decisions. She wore black tank tops that showed her tattoos and had a habit of looking at me across the alley while she smoked, the cherry of her cigarette glowing like a warning.
Tonight was August. The hottest night of the year. My AC had died at 10 PM and I’d climbed out onto the fire escape in my white camisole and sleep shorts, seeking air that didn’t feel like soup.
Sloane had been there. On her landing. Watching me.
“Your roommate is inside asleep,” I whispered, sitting on the metal landing, my legs dangling through the railing, four stories above the street. The city was a constellation of headlights and neon below us. Sloane had crossed from her fire escape to mine — a step, a reach, a trespass — and was now kneeling on the step behind me, her hand on my thigh. “We’re four stories up. The metal is warm from the summer night. The street is right below us. And your hand is on my thigh instead of the railing. You’re supposed to be checking if my AC unit is leaking. Not touching me. Not pressing your palm into my skin. Not sliding your fingers under my shorts—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just leaned in from behind, her cheek brushing my neck, her hand sliding from my thigh to my hip, then under the edge of my sleep shorts, finding me wet and ready and completely unsecured.
“If the neighbors look up from the street,” I breathed, my voice trembling as her fingers traced me, “they’ll see us on the fire escape. They’ll see your mouth on my neck and my camisole pushed up and the potted plants knocked over and the city lights showing everything and they’ll know that this isn’t maintenance. This isn’t neighborly concern. This is—”
She turned my face toward her with a hand on my jaw. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like rust and summer and the exact moment when a fall becomes a flight that doesn’t need wings. Her tongue slid against mine, her hand sliding deeper inside my shorts, her thumb circling my clit with a precision that made my back arch against the metal railing.
The apartment window above opened.
“Hey, is that you, Sloane?” Her roommate’s voice — Maya, a kindergarten teacher who went to bed at 9 PM. “I heard the fire escape rattling!”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand against the brick wall — steadying us, steadying the metal, her fingers still moving inside me.
“Just checking the neighbor’s AC, Maya!” Sloane called out, her voice perfectly steady, completely at odds with the fingers that were currently making me see constellations. “Go back to sleep!”
“Okay! But be careful! It’s a long drop!”
The window closed. Sloane looked at me. The fire escape creaked. The city hummed.
“Four stories up,” she whispered against my mouth, her thumb circling faster, her fingers pressing deeper, finding a rhythm that matched the distant sirens. “And I’m about to make you fall harder than gravity. So hold the railing. Hold on tight. And let the city watch what happens when you finally let go.”
She made me come on the fire escape. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my breast, the metal rattling beneath us, the city lights blinking like witnesses four stories down. I came with her hand over my mouth, my cry swallowed by the urban roar, my body shaking so hard the potted plants fell over.
After, she climbed back to her fire escape. She lit a cigarette. She blew the smoke toward me.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
I still live in 4C. Sloane still lives in 4B. And every hot night, when the AC fails and the brick walls sweat, I climb out onto the fire escape and wait for her to cross the six feet that separate our buildings. She says the fire escape is her favorite shortcut. She says the view from my landing is better. She says the only thing higher than four stories is what she feels when she touches me.
She’s right. It is. And I’ve stopped fixing my AC. Because some things are worth the heat.
