My apartment in California was, well, odd. It wasn’t terribly inviting: concrete walls, stone floor, perhaps a hundred and twenty square feet in total, no windows. But it did have a skylight. And it also had a cast-iron staircase climbing up the exterior, leading either to my roof or the second floor hallway of the main building, depending on your perspective.
As nobody in the main building was allowed to smoke inside, they’d gather on my roof, which was rather hidden away in the back. Aside from the thump thump of footsteps, I’d hear conversations at all hours, night and day, through the skylight.
One of the voices I came to know as Sarah. Externally she was a cute, elfish girl, but she had personal habits that’d make the Navy blush. Lots of fucks and shits between swigs of whiskey and drags of Marlboro Red cigarettes, she was everything I could have wanted!
We set up plastic furniture on my roof and had impromptu drinks, staring at whatever stars there were to stare at, telling drunken stories. During one such exchange, she admitted that she loves to climb things, especially when drunk and wearing heels.
Be still my heart!
Unfortunately, this is one of those and all that could have been stories, as our relationship never progressed much further than the smoking-on-the-roof stage. Yeah, sorry, not much of a climax.
Nonetheless, it stands that I have yet to have a date in a tree. I’m working on it, though.