3. The day she moved in - the aftermath

Steve's thoughts kept circling around Leanne when he returned to his apartment. The determination in her voice, the composure in her gestures. As if insecurities and fears were completely foreign to her. He let the conversation with her go through his mind again, this time enriched with all the funny and clever comments that had not occurred to him before. He was so absorbed in his fantasies, that he forgot about the constant rumbling, hammering and drilling coming from next door.

Just sometimes her muffled voice would get his attention. Even if he did not understand the words, it was clear that she was giving instructions to the giants. "Shall we still assemble the bed?" perhaps one of them had asked. "Yes, the slatted frame is still standing in the hallway, and watch out for the headboard so that you don't screw it on backwards." Steve noticed, that he enjoyed filling in the gaps, completing the picture with his imagination.

A while later Steve had retreated into his bedroom with a can of beer. He had never done that before. But the voices and the hustle and bustle next door gave his bedroom the convivial atmosphere of a pub or a workplace. He suddenly had the pleasant feeling of not being alone. By this time, the drilling and hammering had been replaced by pushing and shoving the furniture. Leanne's voice sounded determined, while the giants' voices sounded increasingly weary. "Move it to the left, yes, a bit more, no! That's to much. Move it back. Ok. Hm, maybe put it back," Steve imagined. A few moments ago a cell phone had rung and since then Leanne had been in a cheerful conversation with someone, only interrupted by occasional orders to the movers.

Steve's thoughts returned to their conversation. So she taught art at school, was artistically gifted herself, even if she had played it down with a certain modesty in her conversation. She had told him that she believed that teaching art was more than just learning art history and painting techniques. Art could be an outlet, just like sports. But many people shied away from art. It was easier for them to go jogging or do yoga to relax. She wanted to take this fear away from the students. Art is nothing sacred, which is only given to a few talented geniuses, she had said.

Suddenly the silence tore Steve out of his thoughts. The shifting of the furniture had stopped, as had Leanne's phone call. Steve listened intently. There were still faint signs of life. The soft tapping of feet on the parquet, something creaking, someone clearing their throat, an unintelligible murmur, a mellow giggling. Steve became aware of a bristling almost intimate tension in the air. There was a regular metallic clink, not far away from him. Steve recognized it as the clinking of Leanne's bracelets. The regularity of the sound suggested that she was scrubbing or polishing something. A creak of wood through the wall, probably the bed. Then a deep groan, followed by something that could only have been "Oh God". While Steve's subconscious had already figured out the nature of the sounds, his brain still refused to acknowledge this realization. He heard Leanne's voice again, but this time it sounded soft and playful. The deep voice replied with some effort, interrupted by short grunts. Meanwhile, the bracelets clanked on eagerly and slowly picked up speed.

Ten minutes later the audible facts could no longer be denied. The moaning and wheezing next door was deafening in the stunned silence of Steve's bedroom. The regular clinking of Leanne's bracelets was now accompanied by Leanne's greedy slurping and , which could only have come from someone trying to devour something far too big. She gasped desperately for air as if she was drowning. Snorting and coughing as she did so. A regular clapping betrayed that she was taken from behind by the other mover who grunted in satisfaction. The wooden bed also creaked to the rhythm and testified to the fierce sexual activity next door.

About two hours later the sounds had increased to the level of a laundromat with all washing machines in full spin. Steve's bed shook with every thrust and the photo of his ex, which hung in a frame on the wall, rocked dangerously until it fell and broke. The grunting and moaning of the men now drowned out Leanne's voice, which was reduced to a hoarse whimpering. In his mind's eye, Steve saw the young teacher squeezed between the massive bodies of the movers. One would hardly have spotted her if it hadn't been for her delicate arms and legs sticking out from the pulsing bunch of sweaty muscle mass which palely stood out against the tanned skin. Helpless with pleasure, she wriggled with her arms, grabbing the sheets in one moment and clinging to the giants back above her in the other.