The leftist next door

The window glass is cool against your forehead. You're still naked from the dissolution, still standing in the kitchen with the vinegar smell fading, when movement below catches your eye.

Third floor. The flat beneath yours. You've seen her maybe a dozen times—always in passing, always in a rush—but you've never really looked. She's stepping out the building's front door, and the morning light catches her like a spotlight she didn't ask for.

Blonde dreadlocks, thick and ropy, pulled back with a strip of fabric that might have been a scarf in another life. A silver ring through her left nostril. Freckles scattered across cheeks that are rounder than you remember, softer. She's wearing a shapeless green sweater with visible stains—coffee, maybe paint—and cargo pants that hang off her hips like they belong to someone bigger. Her feet are bare. She's carrying a canvas tote bag covered in patches: political slogans, faded symbols, a sunflower.

She's beautiful. Not in the polished way of Cathy or May. Not in the tired, warm way of Janice. Something else entirely. Something unapologetic.

Your hand moves before you think. Phone. Camera. Click.

The photo is slightly blurry—she was mid-stride—but the app doesn't care. You open Imprimatur, select the image, and the printer hums to life.

You don't wait for the suit to finish printing before you start thinking about her. What's her name? You've never asked. She's just the woman from 2A, the one who plays music too loud on Saturday nights, the one whose friends smoke on the stoop and argue about politics in voices that carry. You've heard her laugh through the floorboards. A deep, throaty sound that made you pause whatever you were doing.

The printer dings.

The suit is warm when you lift it. Lighter than Janice's—this body is smaller, leaner—but the material has the same uncanny aliveness. You carry it to the bedroom and lay it out on the bed.

This time, you take your time.

You start with the feet. Her soles are calloused, the heels cracked from years of walking barefoot on concrete. You slide your own feet into the suit's, and the material grips you immediately, molding to your arches, your toes. The sensation is strange—pressure, then warmth, then a subtle shift as your bones resize themselves.

Her feet are smaller than yours. Narrower. You wiggle your toes and watch them move, painted nails (chipped, uneven) catching the light.

You pull the suit up your calves, and the hair on your legs vanishes, replaced by smooth skin dotted with faint scars. One on the left shin, shaped like a crescent. A distant memory already flickers—bike accident, age twelve—and you push it away.

The thighs come next. Yours are skinny, pale, untouched by sun. Hers are thicker, stronger, the muscles built from walking and biking and carrying groceries up three flights of stairs. Your hips narrow as the suit tightens, your waist softens, and suddenly your center of gravity is different—lower, more grounded.

You reach behind and pull the back slit open wider, working the suit up over your shoulders. Your torso shrinks, your ribs become more prominent, and then—

The breasts.

They're small. Smaller than Janice's. But they sag in a way that's entirely different—low, pendulous, the nipples pointing slightly outward rather than forward. No bra has ever held these breasts up. Gravity has had its way with them for years, and they've surrendered gracefully.

You cup them. The weight is minimal, but the skin is soft, loose, moving under your palms like it's grateful to be touched.

The arms come last. Freckled, covered in a fine layer of blonde hair that catches the light. Her hands are smaller than Janice's, the fingers shorter, the nails bitten down to the quick. There's a callus on her right middle finger from holding pens. A faint ink stain on her thumb.

The hood slides over your face, and you gasp—not from pain, but from the sudden rush of her.

Her name is Wren. Twenty-six years old. She works at a co-op bookstore three blocks from campus and volunteers at a community garden on weekends. She was arrested once, at a protest, and spent eighteen hours in a holding cell. She has a cat named Karl who sleeps on her pillow. She hasn't spoken to her parents in two years.

She's queer. She's polyamorous. She's been in love four times and had her heart broken three. The fourth one—a woman named Sasha—is still in her life, still a friend, still someone she thinks about when she touches herself at night.

You blink. The room looks the same, but you feel different. Heavier in a way that has nothing to do with weight. Older, somehow, despite being only four years your senior.

You walk to the mirror.

Wren stares back. Her dreadlocks are messy, escaped strands framing her face. Her nose ring glints. Her eyes are hazel, flecked with green, and there are dark circles beneath them that speak to late nights and early mornings.

You're still wearing her clothes. The stained sweater, the baggy pants. The tote bag is still slung over your shoulder.

Strip, you think.

The tote bag comes off first. You set it on the floor. It's heavy—books, maybe, or a water bottle.

The sweater is next. You grab the hem and pull it over your head, and your dreadlocks catch, and you have to shake them free. The motion makes your small breasts sway, and you feel the air on your skin, cool and immediate.

Underneath, she's wearing a tank top. Gray, thin, stretched out at the neck. No bra—of course not. The fabric clings to her breasts, and you can see the outline of her nipples, soft and flat.

You peel the tank top off. Your bare chest is exposed now, and you look down at yourself. The breasts hang low, the nipples pointing at the floor. The areolas are pale pink, wide, with a few stray hairs around the edges. There's a small tattoo on your left ribcage—a crescent moon, faded and blurry. You trace it with your finger.

The cargo pants come next. You unbutton them, and they slide down your hips easily—no curves to catch on. Underneath, plain cotton underwear. Gray, like the tank top. There's a small hole near the waistband.

You hook your thumbs under the elastic and pull them down.

Your bush is thick. Dark blonde, almost brown, untrimmed and wild. It spreads across your mound and creeps down your inner thighs. No razor has touched this in months, maybe years. Wren doesn't care about that kind of thing. She has better things to think about.

You step out of the underwear and stand fully naked in front of the mirror.

The woman looking back is not Janice. She's not Cathy or May or anyone you've imagined before. She's Wren, and her body tells a different story. The soft belly, the small sagging breasts, the unshaved cunt—it's all a kind of rebellion. A refusal to be tamed.

You run your hands down your stomach, through the thick hair between your legs. The sensation is muted compared to Janice, less immediately electric, but there's something else underneath it. A slow-burning warmth. A body that knows pleasure but doesn't chase it.

You part your lips with two fingers. The skin is darker here, pinker. Your clit is small, hooded, shy. You brush it with your thumb, and your hips twitch.

A memory surfaces: Wren, alone in her flat, her fingers between her legs, a vibrator buzzing against her clit. She comes quickly, quietly, then rolls over and goes to sleep.