Roof Letters

I found the first letter on a Tuesday. Actually, let me back up. I'm Gus Montgomery, I'm twenty-six, I work nights at a print shop two blocks from my apartment. Four-story walk-up in West Oakland, no AC, shared rooftop, fire escape with rust on every step. The heat up here doesn't quit until 2 AM, sometimes later.

Three weeks before that Tuesday I'd noticed the woman on the fire escape across the hall. Trixie Banks, though I didn't know the name yet. She was twenty-four, a realtor, and she had a habit of sitting on the railing with her feet on the bottom step, drinking beer at midnight like the railing was furniture. I smoked out there. She'd wave. I'd wave back. For three weeks, that was everything.

Then the note appeared under my door.

Gus.

I know your name because the mailman yells it. I'm Trixie, 4B, the one on the fire escape you keep pretending not to stare at. You've been smoking out there every night for weeks and I've been watching you the whole time, so we're even. You look like a guy who might actually be interesting, but I've been wrong before. Prove me right.

I'll be on the roof Thursday at midnight. Come up or don't. Your call, 4B.

I read it four times. Then I smoked a cigarette and thought about it as anyone would, for about six minutes.

Thursday I went up.

She was already there, sitting on the low wall by the water tank, and the tar under her feet was still soft with heat. West Oakland in August does that. The whole roof breathes it back at you until the early hours.

"You came," she said.

"You dared me."

"I asked. Daring comes later." She hopped down and walked a circle around me. "Okay. You're taller than I figured. And you smell like an ashtray, which is gross, but I can work with it."

"Charming."

"I'm honest. It's a flaw." She sat back on the wall. "So. What do you do?"

"Print shop. Nights."

"And you hate it?"

"I don't hate it. It's quiet."

She nodded like I'd said something smart. We talked until almost two. About nothing, mostly. Her rotten Tinder luck, my ancient Camaro, the guy on the second floor who cooks fish at 3 AM. Then she stood, stretched, and looked at me.

"Rule for this summer," she said. "No romance. No promises. No dinner dates. Just whatever happens up here."

"And if I want dinner dates?"

"Then you're on the wrong roof."

Fair enough. I said okay and we shook hands, which felt ridiculous, and she went down the stairs and I went home and slept like a rock.

The paper airplane hit my doormat two days later. Folded neat, wings perfect. I unfolded it on my kitchen counter.

Trixie.

Fine. Rooftop, Saturday, midnight. Bring beer. If you're serious, bring more than beer.

Saturday I brought more than beer. She was already there, of course, sitting cross-legged on the tar with her shoes off. The city hummed below us and the jasmine from somebody's yard came up over the edge of the building.

We sat shoulder to shoulder and passed a bottle back and forth and at some point she leaned over and bit my shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to leave a mark.

"Salt," she said. "You taste like salt and cigarettes."

"You taste like beer and trouble."

"Accurate." She looked at me straight on. "Can I kiss you?"

"You're asking me?"

"Consent is sexy, Gus. Try to keep up."

So I said yes, and she kissed me, and it was a good kiss, unhurried, and the tar was warm under my hands when she pushed me back onto it. She climbed on top and we made out on the roof of my building like a couple of idiots, and when her shirt came off I asked, "Okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah."

I'm not writing the rest of that part down. Some things stay on the roof. But I'll say this: she ran hot, she ran fast, and she laughed the whole time, and I hadn't laughed like that in years. We used a condom, because we're not idiots, and afterward she lay on her back and traced the water tower with one finger and said, "Huh."

"Huh what?"

"You're more interesting than you look. Barely."

She wrote me a letter after that one. Left it taped to my door as a parking ticket would be.

Gus.

The tar was warm under my back for two hours after we came down. Two hours. I lay in bed feeling it like a sunburn. Also, you taste like salt. I checked twice. Anyway, that was a good start. Don't get cocky.

Then came the voicemail. I didn't even know she had my number. It came in at 1 AM on a Sunday and I saved it, and later she made me transcribe it, so here it is, word for word.

"Gus, it's Trixie. Don't delete this, I want it on file. Here's my idea. The fire escape landing outside my window, four stories up, eleven at night, when the streetlight on the corner comes through the railing and puts stripes on whoever's standing there. I've stood in those stripes. It's a good look. I want you down there with me, up against the railing, and I want to see what that light does to your skin. And other things. Lots of other things. Think it over. Or don't think it over, just say yes."

I called her back at 1:15.

"Yes," I said.

"That was fast."

"I'm a fast yes. But I have a counteroffer."

"Oh?"

"Wednesday. Your landing. I'll bring the beer."

"Done. God, you're easy."

"I'm efficient."

Wednesday happened exactly the way she described, stripes and all, and it was, and I'm choosing this word carefully, spectacular. She asked if I was okay with the railing situation, I said yes, she asked again when things escalated, I said yes again. She's big on asking. I started to like it. We used a condom again because she keeps a box by her window like a practical