Cacho, Dripping for Affection

Cacho couldn't sleep. From one of the bedrooms above his, the sound of trickling water had kept him awake for the past two hours. Now the noise had been replaced by a sloshing, and every few minutes the ceiling let out an awful moan. Cacho wondered if the noise might be coming from Stephanie's room, or perhaps it came from Joyce's. Maybe it was even the new girl's place. That would be nice -- if in fact it was the hot new redhead's room. But since he'd never ventured up to the second floor of the Victorian where he rented his room, Cacho couldn't be sure which of the girls slept in the room above his. Like most refurbished Victorians in this neighborhood, three tenants occupied the upper floor, while the lower, with its kitchen and communal living room, housed two.

Cacho turned onto his stomach and thought about Stephanie. She was something else. Ever since shed moved in, she'd never given him so much as the time of day. If he was slouched on the living-room sofa when she came home from her classes, she wouldn't bother acknowledging him. She'd simply point her nose skyward and stride up the steps in that sexy, prissy manner of hers. Joyce, however, was worse. She teased Cacho about his long bumpy nose, about his weight, about his acne. God, he hoped the sloshing wasn't coming from Joyce's room. It would be nice, though, if the room above his belonged to the new girl. In the short while she'd been here, she'd never given any indication that she might have a cruel streak running through her..

Despite Stephanie's obvious disinterest in Cacho, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Just yesterday hed watched her from his window while she washed her car. Her T-shirt clung to her tight body and every time she stretched to sponge the hood of her car, the hems of her very short shorts traveled high up her thigh.

Now, while lying in bed listening to the water slosh in the room above his, Cacho's hand wandered beneath his blanket, beneath his boxers. He caught himself and quickly removed the straying hand. In the darkness the ceiling creaked again. The noise had ceased and all Cacho could hear now was the shrill whistle of a running faucet.

He shifted onto his back and suddenly recalled the day Stephanie had rear-ended Bill's Volkswagen. Cacho thought it was funny at first, because Bill, who rented the other lower-floor room in the Victorian, was an asshole. A two-hundred-plus pound thug who acted as if his being the football team's star quarterback gave him special privileges. More than once Cacho had removed popcorn from his stringy blonde hair after Bill and his buddies pelted him in the living-room.

Right after she'd smashed the taillights of Bill's car, Stephanie was all over him. It made Cacho sick to watch her, the way she cried like a baby into Bill's chest, the way she clutched his plump hand, and clawed at his curly hair. After seeing how Stephanie acted, Cacho would lock his ten-speed to the tree in the planting strip right alongside the curb where he knew Stephanie parked. But she never did crush his bicycle.

The ceiling creaked again. This time, it creaked loud enough that Cacho turned onto his side, found the lamp chain and pulled it. A blotchy yellow light spilled over the room. Cacho stared up and, though he was startled, smiled when he saw the sagging ceiling. Looking closely, he could see tiny droplets of condensation bubbling up like discolored blisters. He sat up in bed and considered for a moment calling the landlord. But it only took a few minutes for Cacho to laugh and dismiss the thought. He pulled the chain on the lamp again, stretched himself out on his mattress and closed his eyes.

He waited, tensing up and smiling each time the ceiling groaned. He spread his arms wide, curled his toes and waited some more. While waiting in the dark, he continued to smile. He sensed something special, something eventful was about to happen, was about to change his luck regarding the women who lived in the Victorian with him.